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A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink
Emily Dickinson
566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand— His Mighty Balls—in death were thick— But searching—I could see A Vision on the Retina Of Water—and of me— ’Twas not my blame—who sped too slow— ’Twas not his blame—who died While I was reaching him— But ’twas—the fact that He was dead—
