Hope is the things with feathers
That perches in the soul
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
That kept so many warm
I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet never in extremity
It asked a crumb of me
It asked a crumb of me