Hope it's something with the 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
The 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.
By Emily Dickinson
