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

And sweetest in the gale is wish,
And sore must be the storm,
That could abash the little bird,
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest wind,
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

-Anon

Found this in a mail that Lynn sent asking for blood platelet donations... only to find the recipient died 5 years ago. The funny games that fate plays...