Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

I gained it so,
      By climbing slow,
By catching at the twigs that grow
Between the bliss and me.
      It hung so high,
      As well the sky
      Attempt by strategy.

I said I gained it, --
      This was all.
Look, how I clutch it,
      Lest it fall,
And I a pauper go;
Unfitted by an instant's grace
For the contented beggar's face
I wore an hour ago.

1. What Inn Is This
2. It Was Not Death, for I Stood up
3. A Throe upon the Features
4. Some, Too Fragile for Winter Winds
5. Their Height in Heaven Comforts Not

Print

1585 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version