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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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.