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. ~ Emily Dickinson
