"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass. No Ordinance be seen So gradual the Grace A pensive Custom it becomes Enlarging Loneliness. Antiquest felt at Noon When August burning low Arise this spectral Canticle Repose to typify Remit as yet no Grace No Furrow on the Glow Yet a Druidic Difference Enhances Nature now."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (2013). “Delphi Complete Works of Emily Dickinson (Illustrated)”, p.1346, Delphi Classics
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