POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
It then goes out an act,Or is entombed so stillThat only to the ear of GodIts doom is audible.
LXVIII
MINE enemy is growing old,—I have at last revenge.The palate of the hate departs;If any would avenge,—
Let him be quick, the viand flits,It is a faded meat.Anger as soon as fed is dead;’T is starving makes it fat.
LXIX
REMORSE is memory awake,Her companies astir,—A presence of departed actsAt window and at door.
Its past set down before the soul,And lighted with a match,Perusal to facilitateOf its condensed despatch.
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