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Why make it doubt—it hurts it so

Emily Dickinson

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: 21 Jul 2018 6:50 PM | Viewed: 7162 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/6625/ | Viewed on 21 July 2018.
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