'Hope' is the thing with feathers--
That perches on 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.