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.

Emily Dickenson is now a well-known author, yet during her lifetime she was  a recluse for nearly entire life.  She wrote hundreds of poems, full of hope and magic, and all while living in the same room of her parents house.  She lived from 1830 to 1886.

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