Emily Dickinson Poem

Bereavement in their death to feel

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Bereavement in their death to feel

Whom We have never seen—

A Vital Kinsmanship import

Our Soul and theirs—between—

 

For Stranger—Strangers do not mourn—

There be Immortal friends

Whom Death see first—’tis news of this

That paralyze Ourselves—

 

Who, vital only to Our Thought—

Such Presence bear away

In dying—’tis as if Our Souls

Absconded—suddenly—

Besides the Autumn poets sing
Bereaved of all, I went abroad

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