For This-accepted Breath
Emily Dickinson
195 For this—accepted Breath— Through it—compete with Death— The fellow cannot touch this Crown— By it—my title take— Ah, what a royal sake To my necessity—stooped down! No Wilderness—can be Where this attendeth me— No Desert Noon— No fear of frost to come Haunt the perennial bloom— But Certain June! Get Gabriel—to tell—the royal syllable— Get Saints—with new—unsteady tongue— To say what trance below Most like their glory show— Fittest the Crown!
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