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18.5: Hope by Emily Dickinson

  • Page ID
    87451
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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.

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