Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,
Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.
A narrow fellow in the grass Occasionally rides; You may have met him—did you not His notice sudden is,
A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld. The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled.
I felt a funeral in my brain, And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed That sense was breaking through.
When roses cease to bloom, dear and violets are done, When bumblebees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the sun,
I went to heaven, - 'Twas a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down.
A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell; 'Tis but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still.
The wind begun to rock the grass With threatening tunes and low, - He flung a menace at the earth, A menace at the sky.