Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
There you go, Pers.
Don’t say I never provide the high-brow guff for you jokers.
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9 comments:
Thank you. I like a bit of routine, where I can count on certain things - poetry slam Friday beng one of them.
Em is one of my favourites. I even have a T-shirt with her face on it.
I also have her collected letters and boy are they shit. Her poetry was brilliant, her letters rubbish.
Same with Dylan Thomas.
Yes, but as Lisa Simpson once helpfully pointed out Em died "crazy as a loon".
Why are the letters so shit?
Oh, the letters are okay near the end when she goes a bit mad... but well, her poetry was something private to her - as you may recall, she only published four or so in her lifetime, the rest were found under her bed when she died. So the letters are more to do with the the family, you know, like, to the Vicar and his wife, "Oh thank you for the lovely roses and I do hope you shall visist again some time and we may drink lemonade under the almond tree etc etc"
Dylan's letters were all asking people for money.
Oh, the letters are okay near the end when she goes a bit mad.
"Dear Vicar,
May I say how delighted I was to spend such splendid afternoon in the arbour with your wife and yourself.
Sorry about the shrieking, frothing at the mouth and cries of 'the snakes, THE SNAKES'.
Yours sincerely,
Miss E. Dickinson,
Emperoress of the Universe."
Not exactly uplifting stuff Ramon.
From Jane Austin and Zombies to catching a ride in a carriage with Death.
And both the dailys here have dead people on the front page today.
I feel a boozy lunch coming on.
This is my all time favourite Emily poem:
We do not play on Graves—
Because there isn't Room—
Besides—it isn't even—it slants
And People come—
And put a Flower on it—
And hang their faces so—
We're fearing that their Hearts will drop—
And crush our pretty play—
And so we move as far
As Enemies—away—
Just looking round to see how far
It is—Occasionally—
**
You don't need to add zombies to her shit. It's creepy enough as is.
She should be called Emily Dickensian.
I'd like to show my appreciation for your little joke Wari:
>.<
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