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The Lamp burns sure-within-
Tho’ Serfs-supply the Oil-
It matters not the busy Wick-
At her phosphoric toil!
The Slave-forgets-to fill-
The Lamp-burns golden-on-
Unconscious that the oil is out-
As that the Slave-is gone.
(Emily Dickinson)
More Poetry from Emily Dickinson:
- Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- Sic transit gloria mundi (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- I cannot live with You (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- The Wind begun to knead the Grass (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- One Year ago-jots what? (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- Your Riches - taugh (Emily Dickinson Poems)