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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

II

Choice

 Of all the souls that stand create
I have elected one.
When sense from spirit files away,
And subterfuge is done;
 When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand,
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;
 When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved away, —
Behold the atom I preferred
To all the lists of clay!