Emily Dickinson Poem

A Prison gets to be a friend

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A Prison gets to be a friend—

Between its Ponderous face

And Ours–a Kinsmanship express—

And in its narrow Eyes—


We come to look with gratitude

For the appointed Beam

It deal us–stated as our food—

And hungered for–the same—


We learn to know the Planks—

That answer to Our feet—

So miserable a sound–at first—

Nor ever now–so sweet—


As plashing in the Pools—

When Memory was a Boy—

But a Demurer Circuit—

A Geometric Joy—


The Posture of the Key

That interrupt the Day

To Our Endeavor—Not so real

The Check of Liberty—


As this Phantasm Steel—

Whose features–Day and Night—

Are present to us–as Our Own—

And as escapeless–quite—


The narrow Round–the Stint—

The slow exchange of Hope—

For something passiver—Content

Too steep for lookinp up—


The Liberty we knew

Avoided–like a Dream—

Too wide for any Night but Heaven—

If That–indeed–redeem—

A science—so the Savants say
A precious—mouldering pleasure


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