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Emily Dickinson

“I can wade Grief—
Whole Pools of it—
I'm used to that—
But the least push of Joy
Breaks up my feet—
And I tip—drunken—
Let no Pebble—smile—
'Twas the New Liquor—
That was all!”


Emily Dickinson, Final Harvest: Emily Dickinson's Poems
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Final Harvest: Emily Dickinson's Poems Final Harvest: Emily Dickinson's Poems by Emily Dickinson
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