I Measure Every Grief I Meet With

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, On Winter Afternoons, That Oppresses, Like The Weight Of Cathedral Tunes.

Because I Could Not Stop For Death, He Kindly Stopped For Me; The Carriage Held But Just Ourselves And Immortality.

The Heart Asks Pleasure--first-- And Then--excuse From Pain

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.

Much Madness Is Divinest Sense, To A Discerning Eye.