Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

1. A Shady Friend for Torrid Days
2. Portraits Are to Daily Faces
3. The Goal
4. Sight
5. The Thought Beneath So Slight a Film

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