by Emily Dickinson
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American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
< < < I died for beauty, but was scarce
I found the phrase to every thought > > >
I felt a funeral in my brain
I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.
And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
< < < I died for beauty, but was scarce
I found the phrase to every thought > > >
American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
Copyright holders – Public Domain
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