'Hope' is the thing with feathers-- That perches on 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.