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The Lady feeds Her little Bird
At rarer intervals—
The little Bird would not dissent
But meekly recognize
The Gulf between the Hand and Her
And crumbless and afar
And fainting, on Her yellow Knee
Fall softly, and adore—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- It's Such A Little Thing To Weep
- What Shall I Do When The Summer Troubles
- Dying At My Music
- If This Is "Fading"
- It's Coming—the Postponeless Creature
