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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.
Composition date: 1861
-Emily Dickinson, The Manuscript Books of Emily Dickinson, edited by R. W. Franklin