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Of Consciousness, her awful Mate
The Soul cannot be rid—
As easy the secreting her
Behind the Eyes of God.
The deepest hid is sighted first
And scant to Him the Crowd—
What triple Lenses burn upon
The Escapade from God—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- To Flee From Memory
- Proud Of My Broken Heart
- I'Ve None To Tell Me To But Thee
- The Show Is Not The Show,
- The White Heat