by Emily Dickinson
532
I tried to think a lonelier Thing
Than any I had seen-
Some Polar Expiation-An Omen in the Bone
Of Death's tremendous nearness-
I probed Retrieverless things
My Duplicate-to borrow-
A Haggard Comfort springs
From the belief that Somewhere-
Within the Clutch of Thought-
There dwells one other Creature
Of Heavenly Love-forgot-
I plucked at our Partition
As One should pry the Walls-
Between Himself-and Horror's Twin-
Within Opposing Cells-
I almost strove to clasp his Hand,
Such Luxury-it grew-
That as Myself-could pity Him-
Perhaps he-pitied me-
Last updated June 21, 2015