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They leave us with the Infinite.
But He—is not a man—
His fingers are the size of fists—
His fists, the size of men—
And whom he foundeth, with his Arm
As Himmaleh, shall stand—
Gibraltar's Everlasting Shoe
Poised lightly on his Hand,
So trust him, Comrade—
You for you, and I, for you and me
Eternity is ample,
And quick enough, if true.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- What Would I Give To See His Face?
- Whose Are The Little Beds, I Asked
- I Found The Phrase To Every Thought
- The Future—never Spoke
- We Should Not Mind So Small A Flower