"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 heart-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.