She died--this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words and never stops at all.
One need not be a Chamber β to be Haunted β One need not be a House β The Brain has Corridors β surpassing Material Place β
I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there βs a pair of usβdonβt tell! They βd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!
The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
'Hope' is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without words And never stops - at all.