Emily Dickinson

Companion, mine, the poet
Indwells to mystic day
We coincide our distances
With feeling’s first frontier.
One by one she greets us
So staggered is the plunge
Like lightning that splits a tree
The day the bloom is done,
Prophet of the granite depth
And soon the sky returned.
Nice to have a pal so versed
In the trials of our veneer
Those days when we stand stripped
Of shiny trendy toy.
Centuries may pass
Yet one by one we feel
Centuries removed
The poet’s company. 

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