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THE SECRET. |
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Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||
27
XIV.
THE SECRET.
Some things that fly there be,—
Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:
Of these no elegy.
Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:
Of these no elegy.
Some things that stay there be,—
Grief, hills, eternity:
Nor this behooveth me.
Grief, hills, eternity:
Nor this behooveth me.
There are, that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the riddle lies!
Can I expound the skies?
How still the riddle lies!
Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||