Hope is a thing with feathers

A poem by Emily Dickinson

Hope is a thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings a tune without 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 keeps so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land,
and on the strangest sea
yet, never, in extremity,
it ask a crumb of me.