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Emily Dickinson · Poems

Poem 166 of 446 · Second Series: Life

Poem 51

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I gained it so, By climbing slow, By catching at the twigs that grow Between the bliss and me. It hung so high, As well the sky Attempt by strategy.

I said I gained it, -- This was all. Look, how I clutch it, Lest it fall, And I a pauper go; Unfitted by an instant's grace For the contented beggar's face I wore an hour ago.

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