My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun

by Emily Dickinson

To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe. Who win, and nations do not see, Who fall, and none observe, Whose dying eyes no country Regards with patriot love. We trust, in plumed procession, For such the angels go, Rank after rank, with even feet And uniforms of snow.

Is Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable. Is Heaven an exchequer? They speak of what we owe; But that negotiation I’m not a party to.

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

I dwell in Possibility, A fairer house than Prose, More numerous of windows, Superior of doors. Of chambers, as the cedars — Impregnable of eye; And for an everlasting roof The gables of the sky. Of visitors — the fairest — For occupation — this — The spreading wide my narrow hands To gather Paradise.