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The Poets light but Lamps—
Themselves—go out—
The Wicks they stimulate—
If vital Light
Inhere as do the Suns—
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- I Breathed Enough To Learn The Trick,
- Noon—is The Hinge Of Day
- 'Tis One By One — The Father Counts
- I Was The Slightest In The House
- Portraits Are To Daily Faces
