Not knowing when the dawn will comeI open every door. - Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems

"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."

"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 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."

"A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think."

"A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think."