Sang From The Heart, Sire

Emily Dickinson

1059

Sang from the Heart, Sire,
Dipped my Beak in it,
If the Tune drip too much
Have a tint too Red

Pardon the Cochineal—
Suffer the Vermillion—
Death is the Wealth
Of the Poorest Bird.

Bear with the Ballad—
Awkward—faltering—
Death twists the strings—
’Twasn’t my blame—

Pause in your Liturgies—
Wait your Chorals—
While I repeat your
Hallowed name—

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