The Heart Asks Pleasure First, by Emily Dickinson

The Heart Asks Pleasure First

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.

614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—

773 Deprived of other Banquet, I entertained Myself— At first—a scant nutrition— An insufficient Loaf—

544 The Martyr Poets—did not tell— But wrought their Pang in syllabl… That when their mortal name be num… Their mortal fate—encourage Some—

932 My best Acquaintances are those With Whom I spoke no Word— The Stars that stated come to Tow… Esteemed Me never rude

Had we our senses But perhaps ’tis well they’re not… So intimate with Madness He’s liable with them Had we the eyes without our Head—

477 No Man can compass a Despair— As round a Goalless Road No faster than a Mile at once The Traveller proceed—

‘They have not chosen me,’ he said… ‘But I have chosen them!’ Brave’—Broken hearted statement’— Uttered in Bethlehem! I could not have told it,

A little Dog that wags his tail And knows no other joy Of such a little Dog am I Reminded by a Boy Who gambols all the living Day

624 Forever—it composed of Nows— ’Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home—

A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass…

My life had stood—a Loaded Gun— In Corners—till a Day The Owner passed—identified— And carried Me away— And now We roam in Sovereign Woo…

900 What did They do since I saw The… Were They industrious? So many questions to put Them Have I the eagerness

753 My Soul—accused me—And I quailed… As Tongue of Diamond had reviled All else accused me—and I smiled— My Soul—that Morning—was My frie…

590 Did you ever stand in a Cavern’s… Widths out of the Sun— And look—and shudder, and block yo… And deem to be alone

500 Within my Garden, rides a Bird Upon a single Wheel— Whose spokes a dizzy Music make As ’twere a travelling Mill—