Emily Dickinson

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of read more

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

How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!

How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops read more

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

Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.

Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.