"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (2009). “Poems: Series I - III, Complete”, p.19, The Floating Press
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