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POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
And yet it tasted like them all;The figures I have seenSet orderly, for burial,Reminded me of mine,
As if my life were shavenAnd fitted to a frame,And could not breathe without a key;And ’t was like midnight, some,
When everything that ticked has stopped,And space stares, all around,Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,Repeal the beating ground.
But most like chaos,—stopless, cool,—Without a chance or spar,Or even a report of landTo justify despair.
LXXVI
I SHOULD not dare to leave my friend,Because—because if he should dieWhile I was gone, and I—too late—Should reach the heart that wanted me;
If I should disappoint the eyesThat hunted, hunted so, to see,And could not bear to shut untilThey “noticed” me—they noticed me;
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