Fame Is a Fickle Food (1659), par Emily Dickinson

Fame Is a Fickle Food (1659)

Fame is a fickle food

Upon a shifting plate

Whose table once a

Guest but not

The second time is set.

Whose crumbs the crows inspect

And with ironic caw

Flap past it to the Farmer’s Corn—

Men eat of it and die.

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836 Truth—is as old as God— His Twin identity And will endure as long as He A Co-Eternity—

There’s been a death in the opposi… As lately as to-day. I know it by the numb look Such houses have alway. The neighbors rustle in and out,

306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—

980 Purple—is fashionable twice— This season of the year, And when a soul perceives itself To be an Emperor.

Luck is not chance It’s Toil Fortune’s expensive smile Is earned The Father of the Mine

916 His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid.

312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,

655 Without this—there is nought— All other Riches be As is the Twitter of a Bird— Heard opposite the Sea—

XLVIII THOUGH I get home how late, how… So I get home, ’t will compensate… Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me,

The Hills erect their Purple Hea… The Rivers lean to see Yet Man has not of all the Throng A Curiosity.

I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to—

Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—

Some Days retired from the rest In soft distinction lie The Day that a Companion came Or was obliged to die

There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take

A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. And then he drank a dew