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
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,
I've heard it in the chillest land
and on the strangest sea,
yet never in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me.
