Emily Dickinson

There Is A Languor Of The Life

poem 396

There is a Languor of the Life More imminent than Pain ‘Tis Pain’s Successor When the Soul Has suffered all it can A Drowsiness diffuses A Dimness like a Fog Envelops Consciousness As Mists obliterate a Crag. The Surgeon does not blanch at pain His Habit is severe But tell him that it ceased to feel The Creature lying there And he will tell you skill is late A Mightier than He Has ministered before Him There’s no Vitality.

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