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{{% verse %}}She died at play,
Gambolled away
Her lease of spotted hours,
Then sank as gaily as a Turk
Upon a Couch of flowers.
&nbsp; 
Her ghost strolled softly o’er the hill
Yesterday, and Today,
Her vestments as the silver fleece —
Her countenance as spray.

&nbsp; 
— Emily Dickinson{{% /verse %}}
