# 479
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 Dickinson
2 Comments:
You would like the Digital Electronic Archive -- all kinds of stuff on Dickinson. Some of it may be password-protected, but I think the critical articles largely are not, and they have digital copies of some of Dickinson's manuscripts -- pretty cool.
The address is: http//www.emilydickinson.org
Oh wow! Thanks!
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