Text by Emily Dickinson
Written with the hope of giving wing to Dickinson’s words and raise the feeling of hope in the hearts of all who listen.
“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 chilliest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
But never in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
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