Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 48
Chapter 51 of 146 · 1 min read
Unto my books so good to turn Far ends of tired days; It half endears the abstinence, And pain is missed in praise.
As flavors cheer retarded guests With banquetings to be, So spices stimulate the time Till my small library.
It may be wilderness without, Far feet of failing men, But holiday excludes the night, And it is bells within.
I thank these kinsmen of the shelf; Their countenances bland Enamour in prospective, And satisfy, obtained.
XLIX.
This merit hath the worst, — It cannot be again. When Fate hath taunted last And thrown her furthest stone,
The maimed may pause and breathe, And glance securely round. The deer invites no longer Than it eludes the hound.
