One Anguish-in A Crowd
Emily Dickinson
565 One Anguish—in a Crowd— A Minor thing—it sounds— And yet, unto the single Doe Attempted of the Hounds ’Tis Terror as consummate As Legions of Alarm Did leap, full flanked, upon the Host— ’Tis Units—make the Swarm— A Small Leech—on the Vitals— The sliver, in the Lung— The Bung out—of an Artery— Are scarce accounted—Harms— Yet might—by relation To that Repealless thing— A Being—impotent to end— When once it has begun—
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