"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."
"Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, Sir."
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Source: Emily Dickinson (1986). “Selected Letters”, p.176, Harvard University Press
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