"Hope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all,And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.I've heard it in the chilliest landAnd on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me."
"A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think."
"I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—As if my Brain had split—I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—But could not make it fit."
"I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there ’s a pair of us—don’t tell! They ’d 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!"
"Not knowing when the dawn will comeI open every door."
"A Word is DeadA word is deadWhen it is said,Some say.I say it justBegins to liveThat day."