And if not, at least I still have Hope

Hope is the Thing With Feathers


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.


— by Emily Dickinson