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There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons-- That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes--
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul. And sings the tune Without the words, and never stops at all.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.
Becuase I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality
Hope is a thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without words And never stops at all.
His Labor is a Chant -- his Idleness -- a Tune -- oh, for a Bee's experience of Clovers, and of Noon!
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the words without the tune, and never stops at all.
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those we have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things.
Because I could not stop for Death -- He kindly stopped for me -- The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd immortality.
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.
Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
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