“Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.”

“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.”

“Bind me-I still can sing-Banish-my mandolinStrikes true within-Slay-and my Soul shall riseChanting to Paradise-Still thine.”

“There's a certain slant of light,On winter afternoons,That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.”

“It was not death, for I stood up,And all the dead lie down;It was not night, for all the bellsPut out their tongues, for noon.It was not frost, for on my fleshI felt siroccos crawl,Nor fire, for just my marble feetCould keep a chancel cool.And yet it tasted like them all;The figures I have seenSet orderly, for burial,Reminded me of mine,As if my life were shavenAnd fitted to a frame,And could not breathe without a key;And I was like midnight, some,When everything that ticked has stopped,And space stares, all around,Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,Repeal the beating ground.But most like chaos,--stopless, cool,Without a chance or spar,--Or even a report of landTo justify despair.”

“To see her is a picture—To hear her is a tune—To know her an IntemperanceAs innocent as June—To know her not—Affliction—To own her for a FriendA warmth as near as if the SunWere shining in your Hand.”

“You cannot put a fire out!A thing that can ignite can go itself-without a flame-E'en through the darkest night!”