We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise; And then, if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies. The heroism we recite Would be a daily thing, Did not ourselves the cubits warp For fear to be a king.
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 β to be Haunted β One need not be a House β The Brain has Corridors β surpassing Material Place β
I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there βs a pair of usβdonβt tell! They βd 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.