The world feels dusty
When we stop to die;
We want the dew then,
Honors taste dry.
Flags vex a dying face,
But the least fan
Stirred by a friend’s hand
Cools like the rain.
Mine be the ministry
When thy thirst comes,
Dews of thyself to fetch
And holy balms.
Read all of Emily Dickinson's poems · About Emily Dickinson
More by Emily Dickinson
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog