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A little bread—a crust—a crumb
Emily Dickinson
159 A little bread—a crust—a crumb— A little trust—a demijohn— Can keep the soul alive— Not portly, mind! but breathing—warm— Conscious—as old Napoleon, The night before the Crown! A modest lot—A fame petite— A brief Campaign of sting and sweet Is plenty! Is enough! A Sailor’s business is the shore! A Soldier’s—balls! Who asketh more, Must seek the neighboring life!
