Further Poems of Emily Dickinson/'Twas the old road

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'TWAS the old roadThrough pain,That unfrequented oneWith many a turn and thornThat stops at Heaven.
This was the townShe passed;There, where she rested last,Then stepped more fast,The little tracks close pressed.
Then—not so swift,Slow—slow—as feet didWeary go,Then stopped—no other track.
Wait! Look! Her little book,The leaf at love turned back,The very hatAnd this worn shoeJust fits the track—Herself, though—fled.
Another bed, a short oneWomen make to-nightIn chambers bright,Too out of sight, though,For our hoarse Good NightTo touch her hand.
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