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1830–1886

XII.

Emily Dickinson

High from the earth I heard a bird; He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze,

And situated softly Upon a pile of wind Which in a perturbation Nature had left behind.

A joyous-going fellow I gathered from his talk, Which both of benediction And badinage partook,

Without apparent burden, I learned, in leafy wood He was the faithful father Of a dependent brood;

And this untoward transport His remedy for care, — A contrast to our respites. How different we are!

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XII. · Emily Dickinson · Poetry Cove