Praise it -- 'tis dead --
It cannot glow --
Warm this inclement Ear
With the encomium it earned
Since it was gathered here --
Invest this alabaster Zest
In the Delights of Dust --
Remitted -- since it flitted it
In recusance august.
Praise it -- 'tis dead --
written byEmily Dickinson
© Emily Dickinson