"Hope" is the thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard,
And sour must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet, never, in Extremity
It asked a crumb - of me.
-Emily Dickinson
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Collection of Poems
PoetryA collection of my favorite poems by some authors we all seem to know.
