She hideth Her the last -- by Emily Dickinson
She hideth Her the last -- And is the first, to rise -- Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes --
She doth Her Purple Work -- And putteth Her away In low Apartments in the Sod - As worthily as We.
To imitate her life As impotent would be As make of Our imperfect Mints, The Julep -- of the Bee --
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