I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up,
And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step
Around a pile of mountains, And, supercilious, peer
In shanties by the sides of roads; And then a wuarry pare
To fit it's sides, and crawl between, Complaining all the while
In horrid, hooting stanza; Then chase itself down hill
And neigh like Boanerges; Then, puncyual as a star,
Stop-docil and omnipotent- At its oun stable door.
Emily Dickinson
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