by Emily Dickenson
Unto like Story—Trouble
has enticed me—
How Kinsmen fell—
Brothers and Sister—who
preferred the Glory—
And their young will
Bent to the Scaffold, or in
Dungeons—chanted—
Till God's full time—
When they let go the ignominy—
smiling—
And Shame went still—
Unto guessed Crests, my moaning
fancy, leads me,
Worn fair
By Heads rejected—in the lower
country—
Of honors there—
Such spirit makes her perpetual
mention,
That I—grown bold—
Step martial—at my Crucifixion—
As Trumpets—rolled—
Feet, small as mine—have
marched in Revolution
Firm to the Drum—
Hands—not so stout—hoisted
them—in witness—
When Speech went numb—
Let me not shame their
sublime deportments—
Drilled bright—
Beckoning—Etruscan invitation—
Toward Light—
J295, Fr300 (1862)
http://bloggingdickinson.blogspot.com/2012/07/unto-like-storytrouble-has-enticed-me.html