"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge -- The Palate of the Hate departs -- If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- It is a faded Meat -- Anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'Tis starving makes it fat"
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Source: Emily Dickinson, Helen Vendler (2010). “Dickinson”, p.489, Harvard University Press
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