Emily Dickinson Poem

The Poets light but Lamps —

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The Poets light but Lamps —

Themselves — go out —

The Wicks they stimulate

If vital Light

 

Inhere as do the Suns —

Each Age a Lens

Disseminating their

Circumference —

It sifts from Leaden Sieves –
Much Madness is divinest Sense –

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