Emily Dickinson (Poem)

546 (1651)

A Word made flesh is seldom
And tremblingly partook
Now then perhaps reported
But have I not mistook
Each one of us has tasted
With ecstasies of stealth
The very food debated
To our specific strength–

A Word that breathes distinctly
Has not the power to die
Cohesive as the Spirit
It may expire if He–
“Made Flesh and dwelt among us”
Could condescension be
Like this consent of Language
This loved Philology.

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