One of my favorite possessions is a well-worn, pocket-sized book of poetry. Miss Emily has gotten me through a lot of things.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson, 1830–1886
“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.