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

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

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

What fortitude the Soul contains, / That it can so endure / The accent of a coming Foot-- / The opening of a Door.

The Soul selects her own Society.

THE soul should always stand ajar,
That if the heaven inquire,
He will not be obliged to wait,
Or shy of troubling her.

Depart, before the host has slid
The bolt upon the door,
To seek for the accomplished guest, --
Her visitor no more.