Emily Dickinson

A Dying Tiger Moaned For Drink

poem 566

A Dying Tiger moaned for Drink I hunted all the Sand I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand His Mighty Balls in death were thick But searching I could see A Vision on the Retina Of Water and of me ‘Twas not my blame who sped too slow ‘Twas not his blame who died While I was reaching him But ’twas the fact that He was dead

Don't have an account?

You will be identified by the alias - name will be hidden