HOPE - Hope is the thing with feathers

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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.

More poems by Emily Dickinson

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, / Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,

Unto my books so good to turn / Far ends of tired days;

Through the straight pass of suffering / The martyrs even trod,

I measure every grief I meet / With analytic eyes;