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No Romance sold unto
Could so enthrall a Man
As the perusal of
His Individual One—
'Tis Fiction's—When 'tis small enough
To Credit—'Tisn't true!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- There Is An Arid Pleasure
- The Red—blaze—is The Morning
- The Day Undressed&Mdash;Herself
- Is It Too Late To Touch You, Dear?
- The Months Have Ends—the Years—a Knot