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I sometimes drop it, for a Quick—
The Thought to be alive—
Anonymous Delight to know—
And Madder—to conceive—
Consoles a Woe so monstrous
That did it tear all Day,
Without an instant's Respite—
'Twould look too far—to Die—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- They Ask But Our Delight
- Of Tribulation, These Are They
- Kill Your Balm—and Its Odors Bless You
- To the bright east she flies,
- Mine enemy is growing old