poetry

The Days Have Come

The days have come when I lay in my last day

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“Hope” is the thing

“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 …

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