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Sang from the Heart, Sire
Emily Dickinson
1059 Sang from the Heart, Sire, Dipped my Beak in it, If the Tune drip too much Have a tint too Red Pardon the Cochineal— Suffer the Vermillion— Death is the Wealth Of the Poorest Bird. Bear with the Ballad— Awkward—faltering— Death twists the strings— ’Twasn’t my blame— Pause in your Liturgies— Wait your Chorals— While I repeat your Hallowed name—
