One Anguish—in a Crowd

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One Anguish—in a Crowd—
A Minor thing—it sounds—
And yet, unto the single Doe
Attempted of the Hounds

'Tis Terror as consummate
As Legions of Alarm
Did leap, full flanked, upon the Host—
'Tis Units—make the Swarm—

A Small Leech—on the Vitals—
The sliver, in the Lung—
The Bung out—of an Artery—
Are scarce accounted—Harms—

Yet might—by relation
To that Repealless thing—
A Being—impotent to end—
When once it has begun—

poem by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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