The World -- feels Dusty
The World -- feels Dusty
When We stop to Die --
We want the Dew -- then --
Honors -- taste dry --
Flags -- vex a Dying face --
But the least Fan
Stirred by a friend's Hand --
Cools -- like the Rain --
Mine be the Ministry
When they Thirst comes --
And Hybla Balms --
Dews of Thessaly, to fetch --
Poem by
Emily Dickinson
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