The Grass
And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine
And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away, —
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay !
More poems by Emily Dickinson
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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 …