Emily Dickinson


I hold it gently in my cupped hands, and know that it is dying. See, over the two hemispheres of its eyes death is dragging its white sheets, and the whole world of this bird is about to stiffen in my hands. Bird, I wish my soul could escape with yours into the starry branches of the sky. Already my ears have picked out the songs you will sing there, bird of the broken wing, bird of my hands.

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