The Progeny
A little road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly.
If town it have, beyond itself,
'T is that I cannot say;
I only sigh,--no vehicle
Bears me along that way.
--Emily Dickinson
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posted by Ma Hoyt | 12:45 PM
2 Comments:
Mommy, there's no Sunday picture!
But this is a nice poem.
I would have had the Sunday picture up earlier, but was distracted by an annoyance.
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