We outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, - Emily Dickinson

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

Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door — Red — is the Fire’s common tint — But when the vivid Ore

Has vanquished Flame’s conditions — It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the Light
Of unannointed Blaze — Least Village, boasts it’s Blacksmith — Whose Anvil’s even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs — within — Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the designated Light
Repudiate the Forge —

Kein Schiff trägt uns besser in ferne Länder, als ein Buch.