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Our little Kinsmen—after Rain
In plenty may be seen,
A Pink and Pulpy multitude
The tepid Ground upon.
A needless life, it seemed to me
Until a little Bird
As to a Hospitality
Advanced and breakfasted.
As I of He, so God of Me
I pondered, may have judged,
And left the little Angle Worm
With Modesties enlarged.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Of All The Souls That Stand Create
- What I See Not, I Better See
- The Bird Must Sing To Earn The Crumb
- Heavenly Father
- A Word dropped careless on a Page