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Morns like these—we parted—

27
 
Morns like these—we parted—
Noons like these—she rose—
Fluttering first—then firmer
To her fair repose.
 
Never did she lisp it—
It was not for me—
She—was mute from transport—
I—from agony—
 
Till—the evening nearing
One the curtains drew—
Quick! A Sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!
Autres oeuvres par Emily Dickinson ...
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