Loneliness

The Lonliness One dare not sound –

And would as soon surmise

As in its Grave go plumbing

To ascertain the size –

 

The Loneliness whose worst alarm

Is lest itself should see –

And perish from before itself

For just a scrutiny –

 

The Horror not to be surveyed –

But skirted in the Dark –

With Consciousness suspended –

And Being under Lock –

 

I fear me this – is Loneliness

The Maker of the soul

Its Caverns and its Corridors

Illuminate - or seal -

 

Emily Dickinson