Emily Dickinson Poem

‘Tis my first night beneath the Sun

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‘Tis my first night beneath the Sun
If I should spend it here —
Above him is too low a height
For his Barometer
Who Airs of expectation breathes
And takes the Wind at prime —
But Distance his Delights confides
To those who visit him —

'Tis not the swaying frame we miss,
'Tis good — the looking back on Grief —

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