Words that heal…and rouse…

Emiy Dickinson has a way of packing so much into so little. This poem, simply titled “III”, came to me like kind words from an old friend, or medicine, or a battle cry.

Soul, wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost, indeed,
But tens have won an all.

Angels’ breathless ballot
Lingers to record thee;
Imps in eager caucus
Raffle for my soul.

Read it five or more times very slowly and it unfolds like a flower. I hope that I will one day produce something of such great quality.

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