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A poor -- torn heart -- a tattered heart

 A poor -- torn heart -- a tattered heart --
That sat it down to rest --
Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day
Flowed silver to the West --
Nor noticed Night did soft descend --
Nor Constellation burn --
Intent upon the vision
Of latitudes unknown.
The angels -- happening that way This dusty heart espied -- Tenderly took it up from toil And carried it to God -- There -- sandals for the Barefoot -- There -- gathered from the gales -- Do the blue havens by the hand Lead the wandering Sails.

by Emily Dickinson
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