Emily Dickinson Poems

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I make His Crescent fill or lack --
His Nature is at Full
Or Quarter -- as I signify --
His Tides -- do I control --

He holds superior in the Sky
Or gropes, at my Command
Behind inferior Clouds -- or round
A Mist's slow Colonnade --

But since We hold a Mutual Disc --
And front a Mutual Day --
Which is the Despot, neither knows --
Nor Whose -- the Tyranny --

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