Page:Emily Dickinson Poems (1890).djvu/146

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138
POEMS

XXVII.

THE CHARIOT.

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 played,
Their lessons scarcely done ;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.