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Poems by Emily Dickinson: XXXI

XXXI

I meant to find her when I came;
Death had the same design;
But the success was his, it seems,
And the discomfit mine.
I meant to tell her how I longed
For just this single time;
But Death had told her so the first,
And she had hearkened him.
To wander now is my abode;
To rest, — to rest would be
A privilege of hurricane
To memory and me.
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