Emily Dickinson Poems

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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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