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. ~By Emily Dickinson
I like to imagine birds singing as encouragement
for every person who will listen. Have you ever noticed what birds do when a storm blows through? They take cover, or face it, or cling to something in the wind, but they don't give up their music. After the storm—birds return to their hopeful song.
Hope is a gift—a tiny flame created in the soul of every person.
If hope is your transportation, where would you travel?
Source for: "Hope" is the thing with feathers http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/emily_dickinson/poems/5346