I . . . am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold like the chestnut burr; and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.

I cannot live with You --
It would be Life --
And Life is over there --
Behind the Shelf.

A great Hope fell
You heard no noise
The Ruin was within.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes.
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.