Chemica Chemica

Hope is the the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
&& sings the tune without the word
&& never stops at all,

&& sweetest in the gale is heard;
&& sore must be the storm,
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land,
&& on the strangest sea;
yet, never, in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me.