“Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

      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.