‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops – at all.
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard,
And sore must be the storm,
That could abash the little Bird,
That 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.
Circulated post-Trump victory by Robin Richardson.