Emily Dickinson

Twas The Old Road Through Pain

poem 344

‘Twas the old road through pain That unfrequented one With many a turn and thorn That stops at Heaven This was the Town she passed There where she rested last Then stepped more fast The little tracks close prest Then not so swift Slow slow as feet did weary grow Then stopped no other track! Wait! Look! Her little Book The leaf at love turned back Her very Hat And this worn shoe just fits the track Herself though fled! Another bed a short one Women make tonight In Chambers bright Too out of sight though For our hoarse Good Night To touch her Head!

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