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
(poem by Emily d***inson)
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
(poem by Emily d***inson)