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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—
Added: 30 Sep 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:23 PM | Viewed: 9480 times
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Emily Dickinson
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