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Ideals are the Fairly Oil
With which we help the Wheel
But when the Vital Axle turns
The Eye rejects the Oil.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Soil Of Flint, If Steady Tilled
- The Night Was Wide, And Furnished Scant
- I Sing To Use The Waiting
- There Is A Shame Of Nobleness
- I'Ve Heard An Organ Talk, Sometimes