I possess hope, feathers, and useful poetry.
This week called for a couple of birthday gifts.
I gave hope, feathers, and useful poetry.
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.