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.

[ Pagina 5; Selected Poems,
              Emily Dickinson]

Sembra quasi una canzone, non trovate?