462 <br /> <br />Why make it doubt—it hurts it so— <br />So sick—to guess— <br />So strong—to know— <br />So brave—upon its little Bed <br />To tell the very last They said <br />Unto Itself—and smile—And shake— <br />For that dear—distant—dangerous—Sake— <br />But—the Instead—the Pinching fear <br />That Something—it did do—or dare— <br />Offend the Vision—and it flee— <br />And They no more remember me— <br />Nor ever turn to tell me why— <br />Oh, Master, This is Misery—<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/why-make-it-doubt-it-hurts-it-so/
