"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"She died--this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (2016). “The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson”, p.204, First Avenue Editions
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