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Emily Dickinson

“She dealt her pretty words like Blades --
How glittering they shone --
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone --

She never deemed -- she hurt --
That -- is not Steel's Affair --
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh --
How ill the Creatures bear --

To Ache is human -- not polite --
The Film upon the eye
Mortality's old Custom --
Just locking up -- to Die.”


Emily Dickenson
tags: poetry
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