Emily Dickinson

A narrow fellow in the
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him,—did you not,
His notice sudden is

As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, — Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy
A quietness distilled, As twilight long begun, Or Nature, spending with herself Sequestered afternoon
The dusk drew earlier in, The morn...

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just
And Immortality

After a hundred
Nobody knows the place, —Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace
Weeds triumphant ranged,

A door just opened on a street —  I, lost, was passing by —An instant's width of warmth disclosed  And wealth, and company
The door as sudden shut, and I,  I, lost, was passing by, —Lost doubly, but by contrast most,  Enlightening misery

A light exists in spring  Not present on the
At any other period
When March is scarcely hereA color stands abroad  On solitary
That science cannot overtake,  But human nature feels

I had no time to hate,
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample
Could finish enmity