Hope: A poem

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.