Emily Dickinson

Why Make It Doubt it Hurts It So

poem 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

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