"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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-EMILY DICKINSON
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