Further Poems of Emily Dickinson/There is a languor of the life
THERE is a languor of the lifeMore imminent than pain;'Tis pain's successor, when the SoulHas suffered all it can.
A drowsiness diffuses,A dimness like a fogEnvelops consciousnessAs mist obliterates a crag.
The surgeon does not blanch at pain,His habit is severe,But tell him that it ceased to feel—The creature going there,
And he will tell you skill is late,A mightier than heHas ministered before him—There's no vitality.