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.
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.
Do you have any comments, criticism, paraphrasis or analysis of this poem that you feel would assist other visitors in understanding the meaning or the theme of this poem by Emily Dickinson better? If accepted, your analysis will be added to this page of American Poems. Together we can build a wealth of information, but it will take some discipline and determination.