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Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times-
When Dimness-looks the Oddity-
Distinctness-easy-seems-
The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms-
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
The Mouldering Playmate comes-
In just the Jacket that he wore-
Long buttoned in the Mold
Since we-old mornings, Children-played-
Divided-by a world-
The Grave yields back her Robberies-
The Years, our pilfered Things-
Bright Knots of Apparitions
Salute us, with their wings-
As we-it were-that perished-
Themself-had just remained till we rejoin them-
And 'twas they, and not ourself
That mourned.
Of Nearness To Her Sundered Things
Emily Dickinson
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Poem topics: children, world, soul, long, special, bright, easy, grave, salute, mold, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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