Because I Could Not Stop For Death

An early evening stroll through the Athens, NY cemetery behind our house was filled with gothic brooding and contemplation.  With many headstones from the late 19th century into the early 20th, the history of this town's inhabitants is a keen reminder that our life is a fleeting reflection of a moment in time.  Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) provides the appropriate words to match this sentiment.

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 drew 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 – in the Ground – 

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ Heads 

Were toward Eternity – 

Monday Morning

I held a Jewel in my fingers--

And went to sleep

The day was warm, and the winds were prosy--

I said "'Twill keep"--

I woke-- and chid my honest fingers,

The Gem was gone--

And now, an Amethyst remembrance

Is all I own--

c. 1861 Emily Dickinson

Happy Halloween!

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. ---Emily Dickinson