It Might Be Lonelier
Emily Dickinson
405 It might be lonelier Without the Loneliness— I’m so accustomed to my Fate— Perhaps the Other—Peace— Would interrupt the Dark— And crowd the little Room— Too scant—by Cubits—to contain The Sacrament—of Him— I am not used to Hope— It might intrude upon— Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place— Ordained to Suffering— It might be easier To fail—with Land in Sight— Than gain—My Blue Peninsula— To perish—of Delight—
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