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 strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun – Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only 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 – in the Ground – Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses’ Heads Were toward Eternity –
This is a small poetry club that started as a poetry email exchange between two friends. Our goal is to read a poem everyday, and this blog is one way to help keep us accountable. There is only one valid rule in poetry club: there are no rules in poetry club. Read any poem, in any order, with any or no interactions. You decide. We only suggest you read poetry!
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Riddles, puzzles, and sight unseen...Dickinson and her beat to the rhythm of life. I often get so sad reading her poems until one line comes (maybe the first, maybe the last- you just never know), and all hope is restored. I love how she battles with the idea of immortality...calling it Eternity in the last line as if it were altogether something different than the fourth line.
ReplyDeleteThe first lone is so interesting. The narrator seems to not have any agency. Couldn't stop, and even that can't stop Death.
ReplyDeleteI wonder how Death stopped for the narrator. She sees the world differently, especially time. We passed. We passed. We passed. People pass.
Dickinson is such a trip. You never know who or what the narrator is. Tbis is a reay fun poem.