"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed. So satisfied to go Where none of us should be, Immediately, that anguish stooped Almost to jealousy."
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Source: Emily Dickinson, Ralph William Franklin (1999). “The Poems of Emily Dickinson”, p.498, Harvard University Press
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