Harry Robert Yerry

Asleep.
As far from pity as complaint, 
As cool to speech as stone, 
As numb to revelation 
As if my trade were bone.
As far from time as history, 
As near yourself to-day 
As children to the rainbow's scarf, 
Or sunset's yellow play
To eyelids in the sepulchre. 
How still the dancer lies, 
While color's revelations break, 
And blaze the butterflies!
Emily Dickinson

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