The Morning After Woe
Emily Dickinson
364 The Morning after Woe— ’Tis frequently the Way— Surpasses all that rose before— For utter Jubilee— As Nature did not care— And piled her Blossoms on— And further to parade a Joy Her Victim stared upon— The Birds declaim their Tunes— Pronouncing every word Like Hammers—Did they know they fell Like Litanies of Lead— On here and there—a creature— They’d modify the Glee To fit some Crucifixal Clef— Some Key of Calvary—
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