Emily Dickinson- Hope

Hope is a thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul,
And sings a tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

The 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 on the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

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Emily Dickinson- Hope

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