Emily Dickinson Poem

Still own thee – still thou art

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Still own thee – still thou art
What Surgeons call alive –
Though slipping – slipping – I perceive
To thy reportless Grave –

Which question shall I clutch –
What answer wrest from thee
Before thou dost exude away
In the recallless sea?

Such are the inlets of the mind
Step lightly on this narrow spot

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