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Emily Dickenson

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There’s a big old steel gate around her grave
Though It makes no difference – crypt or cave
‘Cause clocks won’t tell the time of day
To those that sleep in dirt or clay.

It’s dark – it’s deep – what’s small will creep.
From the depths of soil on thee they’ll heap
As one takes the long nap in their plot
Where quarters are tight, like it or not.

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