Read the poem: “Hope (Hope is the thing with feathers)”

by Emily Dickinson

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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.

< < < Hope (Hope is a subtle glutton)
How dare the robins sing > > >

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