Further Poems of Emily Dickinson/She dealt her pretty

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SHE dealt her pretty
Words like blades;
As 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.

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