233
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.
Back to Emily Dickinson
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓
To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.