Emily Dickinson Poem

Essential Oils—are wrung

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Essential Oils—are wrung—

The Attar from the Rose

Be not expressed by Suns—alone—

It is the gift of Screws—

 

The General Rose—decay—

But this—in Lady’s Drawer

Make Summer—When the Lady lie

In Ceaseless Rosemary—

 

 

Except the Heaven had come so near
Escaping backward to perceive

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