He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
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,
We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews drew quivering and chill;
For the gossamer, my gown;
My tippet, only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews drew quivering and chill;
For the gossamer, my gown;
My tippet, only tulle.
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
Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
Emily Dickinson