Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.
Part One: LifeXXXII
H
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.