Emily Dickinson Poem

A Field of Stubble, lying sere

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A Field of Stubble, lying sere
Beneath the second Sun –
It’s Toils to Brindled People thrust –
It’s Triumphs – to the Bin –
Accosted by a timid Bird
Irresolute of Alms –
Is often seen – but seldom felt,
On our New England Farms –

A Flower will not trouble her
A Dimple in the Tomb

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