Page:Emily Dickinson Poems (1890).djvu/153

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XXXIII.

ALONG THE POTOMAC.

When I was small, a woman died. To-day her only boy Went up from the Potomac, His face all victory, To look at her ;  how slowly The seasons must have turned Till bullets clipt an angle, And he passed quickly round ! If pride shall be in Paradise I never can decide ; Of their imperial conduct, No person testified. But proud in apparition, That woman and her boy Pass back and forth before my brain, As ever in the sky.

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