Emily Dickinson's poems in translation/Polish/Hope is the Thing with Feathers/Johnson's edition

(254)

'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.