the rest of Ciona's thought

It's not really Ciona's thought, I guess - it's the rest of Emily's thought.

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 of me.

- Emily Dickinson (No Snickidy Lime)

A little hope is a dangerous thing.