Thursday, April 23, 2015

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 
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.

We paused before a house that seemed 
A swelling of the ground; 
The roof was scarcely visible, 
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ‘t is centuries; but each 
Feels shorter than the day 
I first surmised the horses’ heads 
Were toward eternity.


              -Emily Dickinson 

A LIGHT exists in spring

  
A LIGHT exists in spring      
 Not present on the year        
At any other period.   
  When March is scarcely here           
           
A color stands abroad        
  On solitary hills        
That silence cannot overtake, 
  But human nature feels.       
           
It waits upon the lawn;          
  It shows the furthest tree             
Upon the furthest slope we know;     
  It almost speaks to me.        
           
Then, as horizons step,           
  Or noons report away,         
Without the formula of sound,                  
  It passes, and we stay:         
           
A quality of loss         
  Affecting our content,         
As trade had suddenly encroached   
  Upon a sacrament.           
                      
                      -   Emily Dickinson

Once by the Pacific

The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken. 

                                               - Robert Frost