Not with a club, the Heart is broken,
Nor with a stone;
A whip, so small you could not see it,
I've known
To lash the magic creature
Till it fell,
Yet that whip's name too noble
Then to tell.
Magnanimous of bird
By boy descried,
To sing unto the stone
Of which it died.
Next: The Only News I know
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- There is another Loneliness
- The Lonesome For They Know Not What
- The Day That I Was Crowned
- He Who In Himself Believes
- Shells From The Coast Mistaking