< Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu
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POEMS. 123
��XIX. A SNAKE.
OWEET is the swamp with its secrets, ^ Until we meet a snake ; 'T is then we sigh for houses,
And our departure take At that enthralling gallop
That only childhood knows. A snake is summer's treason,
And guile is where it goes.
��� �
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