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| More Poetry of Emily Dickinson |
| The Distance That The Dead Have Gone The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear;' Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year.'' And then, that we have followed them We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become With their dear retrospect. I Meant to Find Her When I Came; I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine. I meant to tell her how I longed For just this single time; But Death had told her so the first, And she had hearkened him. To wander now is my abode; To rest,--to rest would be A privilege of hurricane To memory and m wait for her death Fame Is a Fickle Food Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's Corn-- Men eat of it and die. |
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