Hope is a 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)

The Robin, a regular guest on our allotment flew down, hoping for breakfast as we dug up our leeks. Am grateful to the delightful Poetry Please programme on BBC Radio 4 with Roger McGough for reminding me of this lovely poem