Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that… - Emily Dickinson

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Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being's road, Eternity by term. Our pace took sudden awe, Our feet reluctant led. Before were cities, but between, The forest of the dead. Retreat was out of hope,— Behind, a sealed route, Eternity's white flag before, And God at every gate.

Emily Dickinson

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About Emily Dickinson

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Virtually unknown in her lifetime, Dickinson has come to be regarded as one of the greatest American poets of the 19th century. Although she wrote (at latest count) 1789 poems, only a few of them were published in her lifetime, all anonymously, and some perhaps without her knowledge.

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Birth Name: Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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Lord Byron Edna St. Vincent Millay Alfred Tennyson John Keats Robert Browning

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Me from Myself — to banish — Had I Art — Impregnable my Fortress
Unto All Heart — But since Myself — assault Me — How have I peace
Except by subjugating
Consciousness?

And since We're mutual Monarch
How this be
Except by Abdication — Me — of Me?

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.

This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being's road, Eternity by term. Our pace took sudden awe, Our feet reluctant … - Emily Dickinson

About Emily Dickinson

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