"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell; 'Tis but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still. The smitten rock that gushes, The trampled steel that springs,, A cheek is always redder Just where the hectic stings Mirth is mail of anguish, In which its cautious arm Lest anybody spy the blood And, you're hurt exclaim."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (1994). “The Works of Emily Dickinson”, p.5, Wordsworth Editions
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"I am out with lanterns, looking for myself."
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