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“Hope”is the thing with feathers—That perches1 in the soul—And sings the tune2 without the words—And never stops—at all— And sweetest—in the Gale—is heart—And sore must be the storm—That could abash3 the little bird—That kept so many warm— I‘ve heard it in the chilliest4 land—And on the strangest Sea—Yet,never,in Extremity,It asked a crumb—of me.
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