Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tunes without the words, And never stops at all Without oppress of Toll How frugal is the Chariot That bears the Human soul. No daybreak - can be stir - The slow - Archangels syllables Must awaken her! Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Beings road, Eternity by term. Our feet reluctant led. Before were cities, but between, The forest of the dead. Behind, A sealed route, Eternity's white flag before, And God at every gate. 'Twould undermine the sill To which my faith pinned block by block Her cedar citadel. - Emily Dickinson No daybreak - can be stir - The slow - Archangels syllables Must awaken her! Success is Counted Sweetest/ By those who ne'er succeed. As he defeated–dying– On whose forbidden ear/The distant strains of triumph/Burst agonized and clear. - Emily Dickinson |
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