The Lightning playeth—all the while
E
Emily Dickinson
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The Lightning playeth—all the while—
But when He singeth—then—
Ourselves are conscious He exist—
And we approach Him—stern—
With Insulators—and a Glove—
Whose short—sepulchral Bass
Alarms us—tho' His Yellow feet
May pass—and counterpass—
Upon the Ropes—above our Head—
Continual—with the News—
Nor We so much as check our speech—
Nor stop to cross Ourselves—
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