Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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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. Philosophy
2. This Merit Hath the Worst
3. Contrast
4. Ventures
5. Disenchantment

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