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a poem by Emily Dickinson
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- Nature, the gentlest mother,
- Impatient of no child,
- The feeblest or the waywardest,--
- Her admonition mild
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- In forest and in hill
- By traveller is heard,
- Restraining rampant squirrel
- Or too impetuous bird.
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- How fair her conversation,
- A summer afternoon,--
- Her household, her assembly;
- And when the sun goes down
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- Her voice among the aisles
- Incites the timid prayer
- Of the minutest cricket,
- The most unworthy flower.
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- When all the children sleep
- She turns as long away
- As will suffice to light her
lamps;
- Then, bending from the sky,
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- With infinite affection
- And infiniter care,
- Her golden finger on her lip,
- Wills silence everywhere.
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