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His Feet are shod with Gauze—
His Helmet, is of Gold,
His Breast, a Single Onyx
With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
His Labor is a Chant—
His Idleness—a Tune—
Oh, for a Bee's experience
Of Clovers, and of Noon!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- His Bill An Auger Is
- The Color Of A Queen, Is This
- The Sunset Stopped On Cottages
- The Drop, That Wrestles In The Sea
- New Feet Within My Garden Go