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POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
She felt herself supremer,—A raised, ethereal thing;Henceforth for her what holiday!Meanwhile, her wheeling king
Trailed slow along the orchardsHis haughty, spangled hems,Leaving a new necessity,—The want of diadems!
The morning fluttered, staggered,Felt feebly for her crown,—Her unanointed foreheadHenceforth her only one.
VI
THE robin is the oneThat interrupts the mornWith hurried, few, express reportsWhen March is scarcely on.
The robin is the oneThat overflows the noonWith' her cherubic quantity,An April but begun.
The robin is the oneThat speechless from her nestSubmits that home and certaintyAnd sanctity are best.
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