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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


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