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Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—

Lightning—lets away

Power to perceive His Process

With Vitality.



Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—

Stone of stolid Boy—

Nor a Sportsman's Peradventure—

Who mine Enemy?



Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—

All my Mansion torn—

Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—

Furthest shining—done—



Yet was not the foe—of any—

Not the smallest Bird

In the nearest Orchard dwelling

Be of Me—afraid.



Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.

Often as I die

Its beloved Recognition

Holds a Sun on Me—



Best—at Setting—as is Nature's—

Neither witnessed Rise

Till the infinite Aurora

In the other's eyes.



Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning.
Emily Dickinson, © c.1864.
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