Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - second series (1891).djvu/39

Rh

OPE 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.