Читать книгу The Complete Poetry of Emily Dickinson - Эмили Дикинсон - Страница 256
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I. "Let down the bars, O Death!"
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The tired flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat,
Whose wandering is done.
Thine is the stillest night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.
