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As far from pity, as complaint
Emily Dickinson
496 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!
