Emily Dickinson

(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)

Why Make It Doubt—it Hurts It So - Poem by 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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Read poems about / on: sick, remember, smile, fear



Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004



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