Sometimes when I'm in the library researching Louisa May Alcott, Goethe, Emerson, and Transcendentalism, I inadvertently stumble upon Emily Dickinson's Collected Works.
And then I open it up at random and find something beautiful:
"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."
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