92
My friend must be a Bird—
Because it flies!
Mortal, my friend must be,
Because it dies!
Barbs has it, like a Bee!
Ah, curious friend!
Thou puzzlest me!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Triumph—may Be Of Several Kinds
- Is It Dead—find It
- Soul, Wilt Thou Toss Again?
- Talk With Prudence To A Beggar
- One Need Not Be A Chamber To Be Haunted,