Soil of Flint, if steady tilled —

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 …

All poems by Emily Dickinson →