The Loneliness 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 Dikinson