A Dying Tiger — moaned for Drink —
I hunted all the Sand —
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand —
…
His Mighty Balls — in death were thick —
But searching — I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water — and of me —
…
‘Twas not my blame — who sped too slow —
‘Twas not his blame — who died
While I was reaching him —
But ’twas — the fact that He was dead —
– Emily Dickinson