No Man Can Compass a Despair, by Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

No Man Can Compass a Despair

477

No Man can compass a Despair—

As round a Goalless Road

No faster than a Mile at once

The Traveller proceed—

Unconscious of the Width—

Unconscious that the Sun

Be setting on His progress—

So accurate the One

At estimating Pain—

Whose own—has just begun—

His ignorance—the Angel

That pilot Him along—

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Emily Dickinson