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.

This poem is in the public domain.

On the dusty earth-drum
   Beats the falling rain; 
Now a whispered murmur, 
   Now a louder strain. 

Slender, silvery drumsticks, 
    On an ancient drum, 
Beat the mellow music
    Bidding life to come. 

Chords of earth awakened, 
    Notes of greening spring, 
Rise and fall triumphant
    Over every thing. 

Slender, silvery drumsticks 
    Beat the long tattoo—
God, the Great Musician, 
    Calling life anew. 

This poem is in the public domain.