Hope is the thing with feathers

Hope is the thing with feathersThat 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 stormThat could abash the little birdThat 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, Poems, Second Series (1891)