Emily Dickinson

Of All The Souls That Stand Create

Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done; When that which is and that which was Apart, intrinsic, stand, And this brief tragedy of flesh Is shifted like a sand; When figures show their royal front And mists are carved sway,– Behold the atom I Feferred To all the lists of clay!

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