Emily Dickinson As by the dead we love to sit,Become so wondrous dear
As for the lost we grapple
Tho' all the rest are here

In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize
Vast in its fading ration
To our penurious eyes!


I went to Heaven 'Twas a small Town
Lit with a Ruby
Lathed with Down
Stiller than the fields
At the full Dew
Beautiful as Pictures
No Man drew.
People like the Moth
Of Mechlin frames
Duties of Gossamer
And Eider names
Almost contented
I could be
'Mong such unique


How happy is the little StoneThat rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn't care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity



The Chariot

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible.
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

There's a certain slant of light
There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;

We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.

None may teach it anything,
'Tis the seal, despair,
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 'tis like the distance
On the look of death.


After great pain, a formal feeling comes
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone

This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As freezing persons, recollect the Snow
First Chill then Stupor then the letting go


I never saw a Moor I never saw the Sea
Yet know I how the Heather looks
And what a Billow be.

I never spoke with God
Nor visited in Heaven
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the Checks were given .

Read More:

Read More: