The soul unto itself

❦

The soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend, --
Or the most agonizing spy
An enemy could send.

Secure against its own,
No treason it can fear;
Itself its sovereign, of itself
The soul should stand in awe.

More poems by Emily Dickinson

The robin is the one / That interrupts the morn

I had been hungry all the years; / My noon had come, to dine;

A death-blow is a life-blow to some / Who, till they died, did not alive become;

My worthiness is all my doubt, / His merit all my fear,