Maxioms by Emily Dickinson
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
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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.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode, until we drive away
Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode, until we drive away
