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In lands I never saw—they say
Immortal Alps look down—
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament—
Whose Sandals touch the town—
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A Myriad Daisy play—
Which, Sir, are you and which am I
Upon an August day?
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Upon Concluded Lives
- How Fortunate The Grave
- To Make One's Toilette&Mdash;After Death
- I Tried To Think A Lonelier Thing
- 'Twould Ease—a Butterfly