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He in his madness prays for storms, and dreams that storms will bring him peace.

Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych (via larmoyante)

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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson (via feellng)

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