Read more poems by Emily Dickinson: Emily Dickinson Poems at Poetry X.
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.
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 4 Sep 2026 12:42 AM | Viewed: 8653 times
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Emily Dickinson
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