Their Height In Heaven Comforts Not
Emily Dickinson
696 Their Height in Heaven comforts not— Their Glory—nought to me— ’Twas best imperfect—as it was— I’m finite—I can’t see— The House of Supposition— The Glimmering Frontier that Skirts the Acres of Perhaps— To Me—shows insecure— The Wealth I had—contented me— If ’twas a meaner size— Then I had counted it until It pleased my narrow Eyes— Better than larger values— That show however true— This timid life of Evidence Keeps pleading—”I don’t know.”
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