Emily Dickinson

Crisis Is A Hair

poem 889

Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep To suspend the Breath Is the most we can Ignorant is it Life or Death Nicely balancing. Let an instant push Or an Atom press Or a Circle hesitate In Circumference It may jolt the Hand That adjusts the Hair That secures Eternity From presenting Here

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