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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XLIX
LI

The Soul's Storm

It struck me every day
  The lightning was as new
As if the cloud that instant slit
  And let the fire through.
It burned me in the night,
  It blistered in my dream;
It sickened fresh upon my sight
  With every morning's beam.
I thought that storm was brief, —
  The maddest, quickest by;
But Nature lost the date of this,
  And left it in the sky.