Poemsby Emily Dickinson


 Three weeks passed since I had seen her, —
Some disease had vexed;
'T was with text and village singing
I beheld her next,
 And a company — our pleasure
To discourse alone;
Gracious now to me as any,
Gracious unto none.
 Borne, without dissent of either,
To the parish night;
Of the separated people
Which are out of sight?
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