m o d e r n v i n t a g e

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 labour, and my leisure too,
for his civility.

we passed the school where children played,
their lessons scarcely done;
we passed the fields of gazing grain,
we passed the setting sun.

we paused before a house that seemed
a swelling of the ground;
the roof was scarcely visible,
the cornice but a mound.

since then ‘tis centuries; but each
feels shorter than the day
i first surmised the horses’ heads
were toward eternity.

-emily dickinson

[my dear friend kyle, 26 was too young to leave us. you are an amazing spirit-]