Hope: the odd collection of dyed eggs, the resurrection, glimmers of green clovers in yet-brown fields, birdsong.
Cold and warm rains, wiggling earthworms, rivulets of melting snow, winter bud on lilacs.
“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 BirdThat 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