She dealt her pretty words like Blades —
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| ←I had no time to Hate — (478) | She dealt her pretty words like Blades — by 479 |
(480) "Why do I love" You, Sir?→ |
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.
| Poetry by Emily Dickinson (edit list): | |
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