There's a certain slant of light, on winter afternoons // That oppresses, like the weight of cathedral tunes.
Heavenly hurt it gives us; We can find no scar, // But internal difference where the meanings are.
None may teach it anything, 'tis the seal, despair, // An imperial affliction sent us of the air.
When it comes, the landscape listens, shadows hold their breath; // When it goes, 't is like the distance
On the look of death. -Emily Dickenson
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