Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.

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 chilliest landAnd on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.

A great hope fellYou heard no noiseThe ruin was within.

In a serener Bright, In a more golden light I see Each little doubt and fear, Each little discord here Removed.

We cherish all the past, we glide a-down the present, awake yet dreaming; but the future of ours together—there the bird sings loudest, and the sun shines always there...

It's a great thing to be "great," Loo, and you and I might tug for a life, and never accomplish it, but no one can stop our looking on, and you know some cannot sing, but the orchard is full of birds, and we all can listen. What if we learn, ourselves, some day!

The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear; Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year.And then, that we have followed them We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become With their dear retrospect.

Impossibility, like wineExhilarates the manWho tastes it; PossibilityIs flavoreless.

A great Hope fellYou heard no noiseThe Ruin was withinOh cunning wreck that told no taleAnd let no Witness in