417
Is it dead—Find it—
Out of sound—Out of sight—
"Happy"? Which is wiser—
You, or the Wind?
"Conscious"? Won't you ask that—
Of the low Ground?
"Homesick"? Many met it—
Even through them—This
Cannot testify—
Themself—as dumb—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Soul, Wilt Thou Toss Again?
- Talk With Prudence To A Beggar
- One Need Not Be A Chamber To Be Haunted,
- Unto My Books—so Good To Turn
- That Distance Was Between Us