We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore. - Emily Dickinson

"Es un raro placer que nos ahorma
hallar un viejo libro
con la ropa que usaba en aquel tiempo,
creo que un privilegio.

Cogerle de la mano venerable,
calentarla en la nuestra
y dar un paso o dos hacia el pasado,
al tiempo en que era joven".

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.

THE MOON was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.