566
A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink—
I hunted all the Sand—
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand—
His Mighty Balls—in death were thick—
But searching—I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water—and of me—
'Twas not my blame—who sped too slow—
'Twas not his blame—who died
While I was reaching him—
But 'twas—the fact that He was dead—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- A Coffin—is A Small Domain
- Because I Could Not Stop For Death
- "Heaven" Has Different Signs&Mdash;To Me
- "Heaven"—Is What I Cannot Reach!
- A Bird Came Down