Hope Is The Thing With FeathersThat 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 StormThat Could Abash The Little BirdThat 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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