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The power to be true to You,
Until upon my face
The Judgment push his Picture—
Presumptuous of Your Place—
Of This—Could Man deprive Me—
Himself—the Heaven excel—
Whose invitation—Yours reduced
Until it showed too small—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Dying Need But Little, Dear,--
- She Went As Quiet As The Dew
- The Sea Said 'Come' To The Brook
- I Think To Live—may Be A Bliss
- The Soul That Hath A Guest