Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

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

Note: Hope, like a bird holds fast even in the harshest conditions, and keeps your heart warm. The poet feels that even through all that, it has never asked for anything in return.