~Poem

.
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.
.

by Emily Dickinson
Painting by Nate Frizzell