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Hope is the thing with feathers

By Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886

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.

Learn more about Emily Dickinson at

This poem is in the public domain.

View this poem at View Image source: Public Domain photo, Wikipedia

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