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Poems by Emily Dickinson

Life


XVIII.

THE BOOK OF MARTYRS.

Read, sweet, how others strove,
Till we are stouter;
What they renounced,
Till we are less afraid;
How many times they bore
The faithful witness,
Till we are helped,
As if a kingdom cared!

Read then of faith
That shone above the fagot;

Clear strains of hymn
The river could not drown;
Brave names of men
And celestial women,
Passed out of record
Into renown!