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. Contrast
2. Ventures
3. What Soft, Cherubic Creatures
4. Philosophy
5. This Merit Hath the Worst

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