Each that we lose takes part of us;

Each that we lose takes part of us;
A crescent still abides,
Which like the moon, some turbid night,
Is summoned by the tides.

More poems by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death —

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves— …
There is a pain — so utter —

There is a pain — so utter —
It swallows substance up —
Then covers the Abyss with Trance — …
A charm invests a face

A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil …
There came a Wind like a Bugle —

There came a Wind like a Bugle —
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat …