"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"What shall we do my darling, when trial grows more, and more, when the dim, lone light expires, and it's dark, so very dark, and we wander, and know not where, and cannot get out of the forest - whose is the hand to help us, and to lead, and forever guide us? ... Where do you think I've strayed and from what new errand returned. I have come from to and fro, and walking up and down the same place that Satan hailed from when God asked where he'd been."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (1986). “Selected Letters”, p.39, Harvard University Press
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