Thick and fast, these brief notes come flying out of the dark. Emily shoots bullets from the hip on love and other difficulties. First, the following came to hand.
#462, c.1862
Why make it doubt — it hurts it so —
So sick — to guess —
So strong — to know —
So brave — upon its little Bed
To tell the very last They said
Unto Itself — and smile — And shake —
For that dear — distant — dangerous — Sake
But — the Instead — the Pinching Fear
That Something — it did do — or dare —
Offend the Vision — and it Flee —
And They no more remember me —
Nor ever turn to tell me why —
Oh, Master, This is Misery —
This could be one of her “Master Letters”, that direct address to the person she calls, “Dear Master”…
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