Fame is a fickle food
Upon a shifting plate
Whose table once a
Guest but not
The second time is set.
Whose crumbs the crows inspect
And with ironic caw
Flap past it to the Farmer's Corn--
Men eat of it and die.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Adrift! A Little Boat Adrift!
- Dying! Dying In The Night!
- A Wife&Mdash;At Daybreak I Shall Be
- Fame Is A Bee
- Always Mine!