Hope is a little ******* with feathers
That consumes the soul,
And sings unrealistic dreams--without reason,
And never stops (no matter how hard you try),

And it’s sweetest song is croaked;
the drunk storm clouding my mind
abashing and yet warm to that little bird
That kept so many blind.

I've heard it on the coldest nights,
And in the most desperate pleas;
Yet, always, in extremity,
It comes surging back into me