A Dying Tiger By Emily Dickinson

A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink—
I hunted all the Sand—
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand—

His Mighty Balls—in death were thick—
But searching—I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water—and of me—

‘Twas not my blame—who sped too slow—
‘Twas not his blame—who died
While I was reaching him—
But ’twas—the fact that He was dead—