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If pain for peace prepares
Lo, what "Augustan" years
Our feet await!
If springs from winter rise,
Can the Anemones
Be reckoned up?
If night stands fast—then noon
To gird us for the sun,
What gaze!
When from a thousand skies
On our developed eyes
Noons blaze!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- He Found My Being—set It Up
- Good To Hide, And Hear 'Em Hunt!
- He Outstripped Time With But A Bout
- Midsummer, Was It, When They Died
- Must Be A Woe