Wednesday, June 8, 2011 / 11:02 PM
| 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; | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| Yet, never, in extremity, | |
| It asked a crumb of me. |