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 DickinsonAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: December 10, 1830
- Died: May 15, 1886