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Herein a Blossom lies—
A Sepulchre, between—
Cross it, and overcome the Bee—
Remain—'tis but a Rind.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- 'Tis True—they Shut Me In The Cold
- The Luxury To Apprehend
- He Forgot—and I—remembered
- There Is A June When Corn Is Cut
- Most She Touched Me By Her Muteness
