284
The Drop, that wrestles in the Sea—
Forgets her own locality—
As I—toward Thee—
She knows herself an incense small—
Yet small—she sighs—if All—is All—
How larger—be?
The Ocean—smiles—at her Conceit—
But she, forgetting Amphitrite—
Pleads—"Me"?
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- New Feet Within My Garden Go
- I Keep My Pledge
- I Know Where Wells Grow—droughtless Wells
- Morning—is The Place For Dew
- Patience—has A Quiet Outer