Emily Dickinson Poem

It is easy to work when the soul is at play 👻

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It is easy to work when the soul is at play—
But when the soul is in pain—
The hearing him put his playthings up
Makes work difficult—then—

It is simple, to ache in the Bone, or the Rind—
But Gimlets—among the nerve—
Mangle daintier—terribler—
Like a Panter in the Glove—

It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation
It is an honorable thought 💭

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