Hope perches in the soul like a little bird that sings through every storm without asking for a crumb.

Discovery 6 of 15

VI.

HOPE.

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.