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Emily Dickinson (18301886)

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Heaven Is What I Cannot Reach!

by Emily Dickinson

Heaven is what I cannot reach!
The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopelss hang,
That "heaven" is, to me.

The color on the cruising cloud,
The interdicted ground
Behind the hill, the house behind, --
There Paradise is found!

The Grass so little has to do

by Emily Dickinson

The Grass so little has to do
A Sphere of simple Green
With only Butterflies to brood
And Bees to entertain
And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Breezes fetch along
And hold the Sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything

And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls
And make itself so fine
A Duchess were too common
For such a noticing

And even when it dies to pass
In Odors so divine
Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep
Or Spikenards, perishing

And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay



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