"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (2012). “Selected Poems”, p.11, Courier Corporation
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