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.
This entry was posted
on 24 July 2008
at 05:44
and is filed under
Emily Dickinson
. You can follow any responses to this entry through the
comments feed
.
Post a Comment