Dawn

First print Life XVII, 17
J poem 347 | Fr poem 679

When night is almost done,
And sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the spaces,
It’s time to smooth the hair,
And get the dimples ready,
And wonder we could care
For that old faded midnight
That frightened but an hour.

LINK TO EMILY DICKINSON BOOKS

The text may be used under any of the following licenses:
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE 4.0,
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE BY-SA 3.0,
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE 2.5.
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