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Poems by Emily Dickinson: XXIII

by EmilyDickinson
XXII
XXIV

XXIII

I reason, earth is short,
And anguish absolute,
And many hurt;
But what of that?
I reason, we could die:
The best vitality
Cannot excel decay;
But what of that?
I reason that in heaven
Somehow, it will be even,
Some new equation given;
But what of that?
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