Author Emily Dickinson I lived on dread; to those who know The stimulus there is In danger, other impetus Is numb and vital-less. As't were a spur upon the soul, A fear will urge it where To go without the spectre's aid Were challenging despair. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 5 (1 vote) Rate Log in or register to post comments