"Hope"
"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.
Emily Dickinson （1861）
