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Poems by Emily Dickinson: XLIX

by EmilyDickinson
XLVIII
Hunger

XLIX

This merit hath the worst, —
It cannot be again.
When Fate hath taunted last
And thrown her furthest stone,
The maimed may pause and breathe,
And glance securely round.
The deer invites no longer
Than it eludes the hound.
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