What I have taped on the front of my journal

"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.

-Emily Dickinson