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It struck me—every Day
Emily Dickinson
362 It struck me—every Day— The Lightning was as new As if the Cloud that instant slit And let the Fire through— It burned Me—in the Night— It Blistered to My Dream— It sickened fresh upon my sight— With every Morn that came— I though that Storm—was brief— The Maddest—quickest by— But Nature lost the Date of This— And left it in the Sky—
