A poem composed entirely by copying and pasting, with a little right-click, saving picture as

All material copied and pasted from what a wise person once said:




Hope is the thing with feathers
Men eat of it and die
With just the Door ajar
I could not see to see –

The Stillness in the Room
Had swept the Winter Street,
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –

I wonder if They bore it long –
And then I heard them lift a Box
Between the light – and me –
That has so little Oil –

The Silence tied
Still fascinated to presume
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
Because I could not stop for Death –