| http://www.w3.org/ns/prov#value | - 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 chilliest land And on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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