Pome

Hope is the  thing with-feathers 

That perches  in the soul

And sing the tune without the words

And never stops at all 

And sweetest in-the gale is heard 

And sore must be the stom

That could  abash the little brid 

That kept so many warm

I ve heard it in the chillest land 

And on the srangeet sea 

 yet never in extremity

It asked a crumb of me