Emily Dickinson

It’s Like the Light,—

It’s like the light,—
  A fashionless delight
It’s like the bee,—
  A dateless melody.
 
It’s like the woods,
  Private like breeze,
Phraseless, yet it stirs
  The proudest trees.
 
It’s like the morning,—
  Best when it’s done,—
The everlasting clocks
  Chime noon.
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