For This—accepted Breath Poem by Emily Dickinson

195

For this—accepted Breath—
Through it—compete with Death—
The fellow cannot touch this Crown—
By it—my title take—
Ah, what a royal sake
To my necessity—stooped down!

No Wilderness—can be
Where this attendeth me—
No Desert Noon—
No fear of frost to come
Haunt the perennial bloom—
But Certain June!

Get Gabriel—to tell—the royal syllable—
Get Saints—with new—unsteady tongue—
To say what trance below
Most like their glory show—
Fittest the Crown!