"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"Each that we lose takes a part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides."
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Source: Emily Dickinson, Martha Dickinson Bianchi (1971). “The Life and Letters of Emily Dickinson”, p.345, Biblo & Tannen Publishers
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