If you give a girl a pen, she's bound to write with it...

"Hope is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
It 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."

Emily Dickinson, 1861, #254