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A Dying Tiger-moaned for Drink
Emily Dickinson
A Dying Tiger-moaned for Drink
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-
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-