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Not probable—The barest Chance—
A smile too few—a word too much
And far from Heaven as the Rest—
The Soul so close on Paradise—
What if the Bird from journey far—
Confused by Sweets—as Mortals—are—
Forget the secret of His wing
And perish—but a Bough between—
Oh, Groping feet—
Oh Phantom Queen!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- A Sloop of Amber slips away
- I Saw The Wind Within Her
- Witchcraft Was Hung, In History
- Down Time's quaint stream
- The First Day That I Was A Life