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Contents > Author > Emily Dickinson > She bore it till the simple veins 1830- 1886
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Emily Dickinson
She bore it till the simple veins
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She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand --
Till pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it --
And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet --
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street --

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers --
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy -- immortal face
Of whom we're whispering here?
 

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