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


emily dickinson

hope is the thing with feathers

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