Twas The Old-road-through Pain
Emily Dickinson
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—one— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven— This—was the Town—she passed— There—where she—rested—last— Then—stepped more fast— The little tracks—close prest— Then—not so swift— Slow—slow—as feet did weary—grow— Then—stopped—no other track! Wait! Look! Her little Book— The leaf—at love—turned back— Her very Hat— And this worn shoe just fits the track— Herself—though—fled! Another bed—a short one— Women make—tonight— In Chambers bright— Too out of sight—though— For our hoarse Good Night— To touch her Head!
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