I have a brother and sister; my mother does not care for thought, and father, too busy with his briefs to notice what we do. He buys me many books, but begs me not to read them, because he fears they joggle the mind.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words and never stops at all.
One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain has Corridors — surpassing Material Place —
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!
The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
'Hope' is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without words And never stops - at all.
