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XXXI. "There's a certain slant of light"

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There's a certain slant of light,

On winter afternoons,

That oppresses, like the weight

Of cathedral tunes.


Heavenly hurt it gives us;

We can find no scar,

But internal difference

Where the meanings are.


None may teach it anything,

'T is the seal, despair, —

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the air.


When it comes, the landscape listens,

Shadows hold their breath;

When it goes, 't is like the distance

On the look of death.

Dickinson: The Complete Works

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