Because I could not stop for Death (by Emily Dickinson)

In addition to the book list, I found time over the summer for some poetry -- both revisiting old favorites and finding some new ones. I haven't posted any poetry in a long while, so I thought I'd share this one. It's pretty well known; I first read it in middle school, I think. One of the really geeky reasons I like it is that Dickinson's characterization of Death reminds me a lot of Terry Pratchett's Death, who is perhaps my favorite Discworld character. 

Because I could not stop for Death
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

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 strove
At Recess – in the Ring –  
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –  
We passed the Setting Sun – 

Or rather – He passed us – 
The Dews drew quivering and chill – 
For only Gossamer, my Gown – 
My Tippet – only Tulle – 

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground – 
The Roof was scarcely visible – 
The Cornice – in the Ground – 

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads 
Were toward Eternity – 

 The poem itself aside, there are a few small touches -- word choice, imagery, the like -- that I really enjoy in this piece. The "House that seemed / A Swelling of the Ground" is great; it makes me think of hobbit holes. I like how she says that the grain is "gazing" -- not a verb one would normally associate with plants, but it recalls both the grazing of farm animals and the classic imagery of gazing at sunsets, as per the line following. And I love, love the formatting of the last line, which ends, rather than with a period (as is conventional), but with an em-dash, like the rest of the poem. The slightly unsettling, unfinished quality lends so much more power and meaning to the concept of eternity.

Hope is the thing with feathers (by Emily Dickinson)

This is one of Dickinson's most famous poems, and rightly so:

Hope is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

"Hope" is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —

I've heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of Me.

I especially like this poem for its refreshing take on the human phenomenon of hope. It is not an entreaty to have hope, or a declaration of one's own hopes, but rather an observation and artistic portrayal of the emotion in the abstract.

She has a very distinctive style (lots of em-dashes, capitalization of nouns in the middle of sentences, strict meter); you know a Dickinson poem when you see one. It is, though, not surprising that she developed such a unique poetic voice, considering she was a recluse (and a rather odd duck, in general) throughout her life. In fact, most of her poetry was published posthumously, because she never really sought publication for herself.