Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: WIDOW FORTELKA by EDGAR LEE MASTERS LOW BAROMETER by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES ON A PORTRAIT OF WORDSWORTH BY B.R. HAYDON by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING WALT WHITMAN'S CAUTION by WALT WHITMAN |