A Poem

Because I Could Not Stop For Death, by Emily Dickinson

 

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

 

We slowly drove away, he knew no haste,

And I put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

 

We passed the school where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

 

Or rather, he passed us;

The dews grew quivering and chill;

For only gossamer, my gown;

My tippet, only tulle.

 

We paused before a house that seemed

A swelling of the ground;

The roof was scarely visable,

The cornice in the ground.

 

Since then ’tis centuries; and yet

Feels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses’ heads

Were toward eternity.

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One Response to A Poem

  1. MARY KIM SCHRECK says:

    I did my 100+thesis paper in college over Emily Dickenson–a contemporary mystic and strange little woman…I’m not sure what poem I would choose though to put on a tombstone…Douglas, what about that angel…any specific name attached to him? what a magnificent statue! What is he carrying?

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