Drowning is not so pitiful
As the attempt to rise.
Three times, 't is said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever
To that abhorred abode
Where hope and he part company,—
For he is grasped of God.
The Maker's cordial visage,
However good to see,
Is shunned, we must admit it,
Like an adversity.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Luck is not chance
- A Counterfeit - a Plated Person -
- A chilly Peace infests the Grass
- Like Brooms of Steel
- How Lonesome The Wind Must Feel Nights -
