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To Emily Dickinson

 You who desired so much--in vain to ask--
Yet fed you hunger like an endless task,
Dared dignify the labor, bless the quest--
Achieved that stillness ultimately best,

Being, of all, least sought for: Emily, hear!
O sweet, dead Silencer, most suddenly clear
When singing that Eternity possessed
And plundered momently in every breast; 

--Truly no flower yet withers in your hand.
The harvest you descried and understand Needs more than wit to gather, love to bind.
Some reconcilement of remotest mind-- Leaves Ormus rubyless, and Ophir chill.
Else tears heap all within one clay-cold hill.

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