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Hope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all.The sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat 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.
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