Hope is a thing with feathers
That purges in the soul,
That 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 have heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.