Emily Dickinson Poem

Her breast is fit for pearls

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Her breast is fit for pearls,

But I was not a “Diver”—

Her brow is fit for thrones

But I have not a crest.

Her heart is fit for home—

I—a Sparrow—build there

Sweet of twigs and twine

My perennial nest.

Her final Summer was it
Heaven is so far of the Mind

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