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.
Dickinson's poem is featured in our collection, Poetry for the Well-Read Student.
Return to the Emily Dickinson library , or . . . Read the next poem; I Cannot Live Without You