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If it had no pencil
Would it try mine—
Worn—now—and dull—sweet,
Writing much to thee.
If it had no word,
Would it make the Daisy,
Most as big as I was,
When it plucked me?
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- I Never Told The Buried Gold
- Love&Mdash;Thou Art High
- I Know Some Lonely Houses Off The Road
- I Bring An Unaccustomed Wine
- I Send Two Sunsets