HOPE is the thing with feathers |
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That perches in the soul, |
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And sings the tune without the words, |
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And never stops at all, |
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And sweetest in the gale is heard; |
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And sore must be the storm |
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That could abash the little bird |
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That kept so many warm. |
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I ’ve heard it in the chillest land, |
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And on the strangest sea; |
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Yet, never, in extremity, |