Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws.

The general rose decays;
But this, in lady's drawer,
Makes summer when the lady lies
In ceaseless rosemary.

1. Precedence
2. Their Height in Heaven Comforts Not
3. If Anybody's Friend Be Dead
4. Going
5. The Forgotten Grave

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