| 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; |
5 |
| 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; |
10 |
| Yet, never, in extremity, |
