Read more poems by Emily Dickinson: Emily Dickinson Poems at Poetry X.
894 Of Consciousness, her awful Mate The Soul cannot be rid— As easy the secreting her Behind the Eyes of God. The deepest hid is sighted first And scant to Him the Crowd— What triple Lenses burn upon The Escapade from God—
Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:02 PM | Viewed: 7949 times
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