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Poemsby Emily Dickinson



The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
      The heaven we chase
      Like the June bee
      Before the school-boy
      Invites the race;
      Stoops to an easy clover —
Dips — evades — teases — deploys;
      Then to the royal clouds
      Lifts his light pinnace
      Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
      Homesick for steadfast honey,
      Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.