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1830–1886

XIV.

Emily Dickinson

I went to thank her, But she slept; Her bed a funnelled stone, With nosegays at the head and foot,

That travellers had thrown, Who went to thank her; But she slept. ‘ T was short to cross the sea

To look upon her like, alive, But turning back‘ t was slow.

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XIV. · Emily Dickinson · Poetry Cove