Emily Dickinson Poem

There is a pain — so utter —

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There is a pain — so utter —

It swallows substance up —

Then covers the Abyss with Trance —

So Memory can step

Around — across — upon it —

As one within a Swoon —

Goes safely — where an open eye —

Would drop Him — Bone by Bone —

"Why Do I Love" You, Sir?
I like to see it lap the Miles -

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