Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me. The carriage held me just ourselves and immortality. We slowly drove into no haste, and I had put away my labour 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 sitting sun. Or rather, he passed us, the do's drew quivering and chill. For only gossamer mag out, my tippie-only tool, we paused before a house that seemed as swelling of the ground. The roof was scarcely visible, the cornice in the ground. Since then, to centuries, and yet feels shorter than the day, my first surmise the horse's heads were toward eternity. Because I could not stop for death by Emily Dickinson.