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God hath made nothing single
Hope is the thing
with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me
Unable are the loved to die, for love is
immorality
To wait an Hour is long, If love be just beyond,
To wait Eternity is short, If love reward the end.
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