Emily Dickinson Poem

The Missing All—prevented Me

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The Missing All—prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World’s
Departure from a Hinge—
Or Sun’s extinction, be observed—
‘Twas not so large that I
Could lift my Forehead from my work
For Curiosity.

The Months have ends—the Years—a knot
The Martyr Poets—did not tell

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