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.