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Her smile was shaped like other smiles—
The Dimples ran along—
And still it hurt you, as some Bird
Did hoist herself, to sing,
Then recollect a Ball, she got—
And hold upon the Twig,
Convulsive, while the Music broke—
Like Beads—among the Bog—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- My Friend Attacks My Friend!
- If I May Have It, When It's Dead
- God Permit Industrious Angels
- The Day Came Slow
- I'Ll Clutch—and Clutch