Emily Dickinson


The Black Berry—wears a Thorn in his side— 
But no Man heard Him cry— 
He offers His Berry, just the same 
To Partridge—and to Boy—  

He sometimes holds upon the Fence— 
Or struggles to a Tree— 
Or clasps a Rock, with both His Hands— 
But not for Sympathy— 

We—tell a Hurt—to cool it— 
This Mourner—to the Sky 
A little further reaches—instead— 
Brave Black Berry—