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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-.
Yes, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of Me.