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All the letters I can write
Are not fair as this—
Syllables of Velvet—
Sentences of Plush,
Depths of Ruby, undrained,
Hid, Lip, for Thee—
Play it were a Humming Bird—
And just sipped—me—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Angels, In The Early Morning
- A Shade Upon The Mind There Passes
- Much Madness Is Divinest Sense
- A Man May Make A Remark
- Will There Really Be A "Morning"?
