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Hope is the Thing with Feathers


Emily Dickinson
Public Domain



 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.


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