Emily Dickinson Poems

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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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