Hope is the thing with feathers

{Some have wondered about my fascination with birds

And all things free and flying –

This poem by Emily Dickinson pretty much explains it.}

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 chilliest land, 


And on the strangest sea; 


Yet, never, in extremity, 


It asked a crumb of me.