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Essential Oils—are wrung—
The Attar from the Rose
Be not expressed by Suns—alone—
It is the gift of Screws—
The General Rose—decay—
But this—in Lady's Drawer
Make Summer—When the Lady lie
In Ceaseless Rosemary—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- She Dealt Her Pretty Words Like Blades
- Garland For Queens, May Be
- By Such And Such An Offering
- Conjecturing A Climate
- Sweet Mountains—ye Tell Me No Lie