Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson

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.