Emily Dickinson
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I dwell in possibility...
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the words without the tune, and never stops at all.
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I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
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There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons-- That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes--
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A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.
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If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching,
or cool one Pain,
Or help one fainting Robin
into his Nest again,
I shall not live in Vain.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead - 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
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One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
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Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
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I am nobody, who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then that's a pair of us!
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My life closed twice before its' close-
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me. So huge, so hopeless to concieve As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead-
'Tis starving makes it fat.
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Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without words
And never stops at all.
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The mere sense of living is joy enough.
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Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul.
And sings the tune
Without the words,
and never stops at all.
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I dwell in possiblities.
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Becuase I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality
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Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need to know of hell.
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My friends are my estate.
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Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed.
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They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
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We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead. 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.
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Beauty is not caused. It is.
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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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Forever is composed of nows.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
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How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!
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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
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If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
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Luck is not chance, it is toil. Fortune is expensive smile is earned.
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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Remember if you marry for beauty, thou bindest thyself all thy life for that which perchance, will neither last nor please thee one year: and when thou hast it, it will be to thee of no price at all.
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Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.