As Far From Pity, As Complaint
E
Emily Dickinson
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As far from pity, as complaint—
As cool to speech—as stone—
As numb to Revelation
As if my Trade were Bone—
As far from time—as History—
As near yourself—Today—
As Children, to the Rainbow's scarf—
Or Sunset's Yellow play
To eyelids in the Sepulchre—
How dumb the Dancer lies—
While Color's Revelations break—
And blaze—the Butterflies!
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