i thought i d share it here. I read it first time today. I had always felt a light within me, which is like always lit. I assumed that was love. But i now understand, its light. Pure Light and all that goes with it. And thats for a poem, surely.
Themselves — go out —
The Wicks they stimulate
If vital Light
Inhere as do the Suns —
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference —
II. The Lamp burns sure—within
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.
Poetry by Sona
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Written on 2025-08-11 at 06:01
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The Poets light but Lamps — Emily Dickinson
The Poets light but Lamps —Themselves — go out —
The Wicks they stimulate
If vital Light
Inhere as do the Suns —
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference —
II. The Lamp burns sure—within
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.
Poetry by Sona
Read 61 times
Written on 2025-08-11 at 06:01
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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