"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"When he tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is acquainted with grief, we listen, for that also is an acquaintance of our own."
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Source: Emily Dickinson, Thomas Herbert Johnson, Theodora Ward (1986). “The Letters of Emily Dickinson”, p.837, Harvard University Press
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