"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"Our little kinsmen after rain In plenty may be seen, a pink and pulpy multitude The tepid ground upon; A needless life if seemed to me Until a little bird As to a hospitality Advanced and breakfasted."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (1963). “Poems: Including Variant Readings Critically Compared with All Known Manuscripts”
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