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The Lightning playeth-all the while-
But when He singeth-then-
Ourselves are conscious He exist-
And we approach Him-stern-
With Insulators-and a Glove-
Whose short-sepulchral Bass
Alarms us-tho' His Yellow feet
May pass-and counterpass-
Upon the Ropes-above our Head-
Continual-with the News-
Nor We so much as check our speech-
Nor stop to cross Ourselves-
The Lightning Playeth'all The While
Emily Dickinson
(1)
Poem topics: head, speech, short, yellow, approach, conscious, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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