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A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink
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566
A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink—
I hunted all the Sand—
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand—
His Mighty Balls—in death were thick—
But searching—I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water—and of me—
'Twas not my blame—who sped too slow—
'Twas not his blame—who died
While I was reaching him—
But 'twas—the fact that He was dead—
Emily Dickinson
Read poems about / on: tiger, water, death, hunting
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Dimitris(Jimmy) Psachos (6/19/2007 9:53:00 AM)
Struggling for salvation ms Dickinson, an expressive need for....late compassion.Utter delight to explore in the daidalus of her genuine poetic soul, even if this is a small token... |
Jon Alan (6/19/2007 12:55:00 AM)
In her unique style, Ms. Dickinson carries one theme throughout the poem until the last few lines, then delivers the coup de grâce, the twist of fate and intended entendre, as in her poem 'A Drop Fell On The Apple Tree'. |
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Emily Dickinson
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