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;      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.