We miss a Kinsman more
We miss a Kinsman more
When warranted to see
Than when withheld of Oceans
From possibility
A Furlong than a League
Inflicts a pricklier pain,
Till We, who smiled at Pyrenees —
Of Parishes, complain.
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 …