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Poems by Emily Dickinson: XLVII

XLVII

What soft, cherubic creatures
These gentlewomen are!
One would as soon assault a plush
Or violate a star.
Such dimity convictions,
A horror so refined
Of freckled human nature,
Of Deity ashamed, —
It's such a common glory,
A fisherman's degree!
Redemption, brittle lady,
Be so, ashamed of thee.
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