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 labour, 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.
Emily DickinsonAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: December 10, 1830
- Died: May 15, 1886
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