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Like Flowers, that heard the news of Dews,
But never deemed the dripping prize
Awaited their-low Brows-
Or Bees-that thought the Summer’s name
Some rumor of Delirium,
No Summer-could-for Them-
Or Arctic Creatures, dimly stirred-
By Tropic Hint-some Travelled Bird
Imported to the Wood-
Or Wind’s bright signal to the Ear-
Making that homely, and severe,
Contented, known, before-
The Heaven-unexpected come,
To Lives that thought the Worshipping
A too presumptuous Psalm-
(Emily Dickinson)
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