"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly? The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring ,Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (1986). “Selected Letters”, p.265, Harvard University Press
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