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Emily Dickinson · Poems

Poem 428 of 446 · Third Series: Time and Eternity

Poem 41

— ✻ —

I breathed enough to learn the trick,
And now, removed from air,
I simulate the breath so well,
That one, to be quite sure

The lungs are stirless, must descend
Among the cunning cells,
And touch the pantomime himself.
How cool the bellows feels!

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