Of all the souls that stand create  
I have elected one.  
When sense from spirit files away,  
And subterfuge is done;  
   
When that which is and that which was       
Apart, intrinsic, stand,  
And this brief tragedy of flesh  
Is shifted like a sand;  
   
When figures show their royal front  
And mists are carved away,-       
Behold the atom I preferred  
To all the lists of clay!                            

                               by Emily Dickinson





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