Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

We never know how high we are  
  Till we are called to rise;  
And then, if we are true to plan,  
  Our statures touch the skies—  
   
The Heroism we recite
  Would be a daily thing,  
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp  
  For fear to be a King—

1. Going
2. I Have a King Who Does Not Speak
3. I Know a Place Where Summer Strives
4. Pompless No Life Can Pass Away
5. Saturday Afternoon

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