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The World—feels Dusty
Emily Dickinson
715 The World—feels Dusty When We stop to Die— We want the Dew—then— Honors—taste dry— Flags—vex a Dying face— But the least Fan Stirred by a friend’s Hand— Cools—like the Rain— Mine be the Ministry When they Thirst comes— And Hybla Balms— Dews of Thessaly, to fetch—
