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Some things that fly there be—
Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee—
Of these no Elegy.
Some things that stay there be—
Grief—Hills—Eternity&mda sh;
Nor this behooveth me.
There are that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the Riddle lies!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- I Years Had Been From Home,
- To Learn The Transport By The Pain
- I Live With Him—i See His Face
- Her Final Summer Was It,
- Pain