HOPE is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
That 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!
(My friend passed this poem along, written by her granddaughter whose heart is from a bygone era.)
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