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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

Epitaph
VI

V

Morns like these we parted;
Noons like these she rose,
Fluttering first, then firmer,
To her fair repose.
Never did she lisp it,
And 't was not for me;
She was mute from transport,
I, from agony!
Till the evening, nearing,
One the shutters drew —
Quick! a sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!