Read more poems by Emily Dickinson: Emily Dickinson Poems at Poetry X.
462 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—
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:29 PM | Viewed: 7612 times
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Emily Dickinson
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