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’s words, they carry on,
Through time, through space, through light.
Her hope, a bird that never wanes,
Forever in our sight.