Emily Dickinson Poem

Our little secrets slink away —

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Our little secrets slink away —
Beside God’s shall not tell —
He kept his word a Trillion years
And might we not as well —
But for the niggardly delight
To make each other stare
Is there no sweet beneath the sun
With this that may compare —

Our own possessions — though our own —
Opinion is a flitting thing

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