They leave us with the Infinite
They leave us with the Infinite.
But He—is not a man—
His fingers are the size of fists—
His fists, the size of men—
And whom he foundeth, with his Arm
As Himmaleh, shall stand—
Gibraltar's Everlasting Shoe
Poised lightly on his Hand,
So trust him, Comrade—
You for you, and I, for you and me
Eternity is ample,
And quick enough, if true.
Emily Dickinson's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (They leave us with the Infinite by Emily Dickinson )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
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