Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 21 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING CHAUCERS WORDES UNTO ADAM, HIS OWN SCRIVEYN by GEOFFREY CHAUCER THE BABY, FR. AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND by GEORGE MACDONALD THE TUFT OF KELP by HERMAN MELVILLE WEEDS by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: PROEM by ALFRED TENNYSON SEEING HIS OWN PICTURE by PHILIP AYRES STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE by BERNARD BARTON |