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Emily Dickinson · Poems

Poem 51 of 446 · First Series: Nature

Poem 7

— ✻ —

The bee is not afraid of me,
I know the butterfly;
The pretty people in the woods
Receive me cordially.

The brooks laugh louder when I come,
The breezes madder play.
Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?
Wherefore, O summer's day?

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