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 sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

- Emily Dickinson