Hope is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep…

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

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