Read more poems by Emily Dickinson: Emily Dickinson Poems at Poetry X.
1712 A Pit—but Heaven over it— And Heaven beside, and Heaven abroad, And yet a Pit— With Heaven over it. To stir would be to slip— To look would be to drop— To dream—to sap the Prop That holds my chances up. Ah! Pit! With Heaven over it! The depth is all my thought— I dare not ask my feet— 'Twould start us where we sit So straight you'd scarce suspect It was a Pit—with fathoms under it— Its Circuit just the same. Seed—summer—tomb— Whose Doom to whom? Edited by Peter Carter
Added: 2 Apr 2003 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:57 PM | Viewed: 8793 times
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Emily Dickinson
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