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The Lamp burns sure—within—
Tho' Serfs—supply the Oil—
It matters not the busy Wick—
At her phosphoric toil!
The Slave—forgets—to fill—
The Lamp—burns golden—on—
Unconscious that the oil is out—
As that the Slave—is gone.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Not That We Did, Shall Be The Test
- Morns Like These—we Parted
- The Tint I Cannot Take—is Best
- Like Mighty Foot Lights—burned The Red
- None Can Experience Sting
