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.

            Emily Dickinson