Emily Dickinson Poem

Is it dead—Find it

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Is it dead—Find it—
Out of sound—Out of sight—
“Happy”? Which is wiser—
You, or the Wind?
“Conscious”? Won’t you ask that—
Of the low Ground?

“Homesick”? Many met it—
Even through them—This
Cannot testify—
Themself—as dumb—

Is it true, dear Sue?
Is Bliss then, such Abyss

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