Why make it doubt—it hurts it so—

Why make it doubt—it hurts it so—
So sick to guess
So strong to know—
So brave upon its little bed
To tell the very last they said
Unto Itself—and smile and shake
For that dear, distant, dangerous sake.
But, the Instead—
The pinching fear
That something it did do or dare
Offend the Vision, and it flee,
And They no more remember me
Nor ever turn to tell me why—
Oh, Master! this is misery!