My Sunday Poetry offering:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
and sings the tune without the words
and never stops at all.
And the sweetest in the gale is heard;
And some must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest lands,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.