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In many and reportless places

We feel a Joy --

Reportless, also, but sincere as Nature

Or Deity --

It comes, without a consternation --

Dissolves -- the same --

But leaves a sumptuous Destitution --

Without a Name --

Profane it by a search -- we cannot

It has no home --

Nor we who having once inhaled it --

Thereafter roam.

-Emily Dickinson