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Of Consciousness, her awful Mate
The Soul cannot be rid-
As easy the secreting her
Behind the Eyes of God.
The deepest hid is sighted first
And scant to Him the Crowd-
What triple Lenses burn upon
The Escapade from God-
Of Consciousness, Her Awful Mate
Emily Dickinson
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Poem topics: soul, easy, crowd, god, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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