"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering; And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (2016). “The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson”, p.11, First Avenue Editions
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