Emily Dickinson
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.
The Lebanexican 
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