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.

More poems by Emily Dickinson

FOR Death,–or rather / For the things 'twill buy,

The springtime's pallid landscape / Will glow like bright bouquet,

You've seen balloons set, haven't you? / So stately they ascend

Delayed till she had ceased to know, / Delayed till in its vest of snow