The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend –
Or the most agonizing Spy –
An Enemy – could send –
Secure against its own –
No treason it can fear –
Itself – its Sovereign – of itself
The Soul should stand in Awe –
I died for Beauty – but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room -
He questioned softly “Why I failed”?
“For Beauty”, I replied -
“And I – for Truth – Themself are One -
We Brethren are”, He said -
And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night —
We talked between the Rooms -
Until the Moss had reached our lips -
And covered up – Our names -
[Emily Dickinson]
“The poem weighs idealism against the stark reality of death, emphasizing that death is far more permanent than the ideals people die for.” (LitCharts.com)