POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Might some one else so learned be,And leave me just my A B C,Himself could have the skies.
XXII
THE bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth,—
The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity.
XXIII
I REASON, earth is short,And anguish absolute.And many hurt;But what of that?
I reason, we could die:The best vitalityCannot excel decay;But what of that?
I reason that in heavenSomehow, it will be even,Some new equation given;But what of that?
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