Poem
The Lamp burns sure—within
233
The Lamp burns sure—within—
Tho' Serfs—supply the Oil—
It matters not the busy Wick—
At her phosphoric toil!
The Slave—forgets—to fill—
The Lamp—burns golden—on—
Unconscious that the oil is out—
As that the Slave—is gone.
One poem every morning.
6,130 poems from Shakespeare to Tupac. Read one a day. Save the ones that stay.
Free on the App Store.