Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

The soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend, --
Or the most agonizing spy
An enemy could send.

Secure against its own,
No treason it can fear;
Itself its sovereign, of itself
The soul should stand in awe.

1. A Poor Torn Heart, a Tattered Heart
2. The Show
3. A Thought Went up My Mind To-day
4. Too Much
5. Delight Becomes Pictorial

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