Poems by Emily Dickinson-3
XLIV.

Emily Dick

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If I may have it when it's dead

I will contented be;

If just as soon as breath is out

It shall belong to me,

Until they lock it in the grave,

'T is bliss I cannot weigh,

For though they lock thee in the grave,

Myself can hold the key.

Think of it, lover! I and thee

Permitted face to face to be;

After a life, a death we'll say, —

For death was that, and this is thee.

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