Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops read more

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all.

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate.

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate.

God preaches, a noted clergyman,
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven read more

God preaches, a noted clergyman,
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven at last,
I'm going all along.

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of read more

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes--

The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
read more

The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.