An attempt at a different version of Emily Dickinson's HOPE:

"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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