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—
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