Emily Dickinson

They Leave Us With The Infinite

poem 350

They leave us with the Infinite. But He is not a man His fingers are the size of fists His fists, the size of men And whom he foundeth, with his Arm As Himmaleh, shall stand Gibraltar’s Everlasting Shoe Poised lightly on his Hand, So trust him, Comrade You for you, and I, for you and me Eternity is ample, And quick enough, if true.

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