Emily Dickinson Poems

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I play at Riches -- to appease
The Clamoring for Gold --
It kept me from a Thief, I think,
For often, overbold

With Want, and Opportunity --
I could have done a Sin
And been Myself that easy Thing
An independent Man --

But often as my lot displays
Too hungry to be borne
I deem Myself what I would be --
And novel Comforting

My Poverty and I derive --
We question if the Man --
Who own -- Esteem the Opulence --
As We -- Who never Can --

Should ever these exploring Hands
Chance Sovereign on a Mine --
Or in the long -- uneven term
To win, become their turn --

How fitter they will be -- for Want --
Enlightening so well --
I know not which, Desire, or Grant --
Be wholly beautiful --

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