Author Emily Dickinson 372 I know lives, I could miss Without a Misery— Others—whose instant's wanting— Would be Eternity— The last—a scanty Number— 'Twould scarcely fill a Two— The first—a Gnat's Horizon Could easily outgrow— Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments