Emily Dickinson

poems:

15

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 't is centuries; but each feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads were toward eternity.

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