Emily Dickinson Poems

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The Lightning playeth -- all the while --
But when He singeth -- then --
Ourselves are conscious He exist --
And we approach Him -- stern --

With Insulators -- and a Glove --
Whose short -- sepulchral Bass
Alarms us -- tho' His Yellow feet
May pass -- and counterpass --

Upon the Ropes -- above our Head --
Continual -- with the News --
Nor We so much as check our speech --
Nor stop to cross Ourselves --

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