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Impossibility, like Wine
Exhilarates the Man
Who tastes it; Possibility
Is flavorless—Combine
A Chance's faintest Tincture
And in the former Dram
Enchantment makes ingredient
As certainly as Doom—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Twice Had Summer Her Fair Verdure
- These Are The Days When Birds Come Back
- To This World She Returned
- Why Do They Shut Me Out of Heaven?
- If Your Nerve, Deny You