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[Error: unknown template qotd] Emily Dickinson

The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
To her divine majority
Present no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariots pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved an Emperor kneeling
Upon her mat.

I've known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
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