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She went as quiet as the Dew
From an Accustomed flower.
Not like the Dew, did she return
At the Accustomed hour!
She dropt as softly as a star
From out my summer's Eve—
Less skillful than Le Verriere
It's sorer to believe!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Sea Said 'Come' To The Brook
- I Think To Live—may Be A Bliss
- The Soul That Hath A Guest
- Have Any Like Myself
- To Know Just How He Suffered—Would Be Dear