One of the poems collected in my sketchbook:

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 from me.

                  - Emily Dickinson

I just read that only seven of Emily Dickinson’s some 1800 poems were published during her lifetime. If you are interested more of her writing can be found at www.emilydickinson.org.