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| Don't click me, you @#% |
HOPE is the thing with feathers And sweetest in the gale is heard; I've heard it in the chillest land, Emily Dickinson
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And
never stops at all,
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That
kept so many warm.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It
asked a crumb of me.
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