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Angels, in the early morning
May be seen the Dews among,
Stooping—plucking—smiling&m dash;flying—
Do the Buds to them belong?
Angels, when the sun is hottest
May be seen the sands among,
Stooping—plucking—sighing&m dash;flying—
Parched the flowers they bear along.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- A Shade Upon The Mind There Passes
- Much Madness Is Divinest Sense
- A Man May Make A Remark
- Will There Really Be A "Morning"?
- A Wounded Deer&Mdash;Leaps Highest