Hope, Feathers, and Useful Poetry

I possess hope, feathers, and useful poetry.

This week called for a couple of birthday gifts.

I gave hope, feathers, and useful poetry.

Hope     

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.

(Emily Dickinson, circa 1861)