Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu/121

 POEMS. 107

You left for me to hue ; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you.

Who knocks ? That April !

Lock the door !

I will not be pursued !

He stayed away a year, to call

When I am occupied.

But trifles look so trivial

As soon as you have come,

That blame is just as dear as praise

And praise as mere as blame.

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