Emily Dickinson – The World—feels Dusty


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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

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