Detail
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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,
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It asked a crumb of me.
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