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Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson


The Hemlock


I think the hemlock likes to stand
Upon a marge of snow;
It suits his own austerity,
And satisfies an awe

That men must slake in wilderness,
Or in the desert cloy, --
An instinct for the hoar, the bald,
Lapland's necessity.

The hemlock's nature thrives on cold;
The gnash of northern winds
Is sweetest nutriment to him,
His best Norwegian wines.

To satin races he is nought;
But children on the Don
Beneath his tabernacles play,
And Dnieper wrestlers run.



Emily Elizabeth Dickinson


Emily Elizabeth Dickinson's other poems:
  1. The Riddle We Can Guess
  2. Playmates
  3. Resurgam
  4. The Martyrs
  5. Sight


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