Emily Dickinson

The Loneliness One Dare Not Sound

poem 777

The Loneliness One dare not sound And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size The Loneliness whose worst alarm Is lest itself should see And perish from before itself For just a scrutiny The Horror not to be surveyed But skirted in the Dark With Consciousness suspended And Being under Lock I fear me this is Loneliness The Maker of the soul Its Caverns and its Corridors Illuminate or seal

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