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Emily Dickinson · Poems

Poem 47 of 446 · First Series: Nature

Why?

— ✻ —

The murmur of a bee A witchcraft yieldeth me. If any ask me why, 'T were easier to die Than tell.

The red upon the hill Taketh away my will; If anybody sneer, Take care, for God is here, That's all.

The breaking of the day Addeth to my degree; If any ask me how, Artist, who drew me so, Must tell!

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