478

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