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Why make it doubt—it hurts it so—
So sick—to guess—
So strong—to know—
So brave—upon its little Bed
To tell the very last They said
Unto Itself—and smile—And shake—
For that dear—distant—dangerous—Sake—
But—the Instead—the Pinching fear
That Something—it did do—or dare—
Offend the Vision—and it flee—
And They no more remember me—
Nor ever turn to tell me why—
Oh, Master, This is Misery—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Wind Didn'T Come From The Orchard—today
- This Chasm, Sweet, Upon My Life
- No Man Can Compass A Despair
- One Life Of So Much Consequence!
- Are Friends Delight Or Pain