VI
Hope
Hope is the thing with feathersThat 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 stormThat could abash the little birdThat 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.