17 lines
317 B
Markdown
17 lines
317 B
Markdown
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{{% verse %}}She died at play,
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Gambolled away
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Her lease of spotted hours,
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Then sank as gaily as a Turk
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Upon a Couch of flowers.
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Her ghost strolled softly o’er the hill
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Yesterday, and Today,
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Her vestments as the silver fleece —
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Her countenance as spray.
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— Emily Dickinson{{% /verse %}}
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