The CragBaby

“Hope is a 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 this little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb from me.”