21+ Famous Death Poems by Emily Dickinson

A collection of famous death poems by Emily Dickinson, a well-known American poet, was left that has captivated readers with such introspective and unique style. Her approach to death is delicate yet very profound, challenging conventional perceptions.

Emily Dickinson’s famous death poems don’t just scratch the surface of the whole mortality thing. In one of her most renowned death poems, “Because I could not stop for Death”, Dickinson portrays death as a courteous companion on a journey through life’s stages and the final resting place. This imaginative personification redefines our typical fears of death and invites us to see it as a natural part of life. Another striking work, “I heard a Fly buzz – when I died,” vividly depicts the final moments of one’s life. Even in the face of death, everyday details persist, emphasized by the presence of a pesky fly. This poem reveals Dickinson’s fascination with the contrast between the profound and the ordinary aspects of dying.

Many famous death poems by Emily Dickinson delve into existential questions, the mystery of mortality, and the nature of immortality. Her unique perspective and lyrical language encourage readers to ponder the human experience in the context of the inevitable, challenging many social concepts surrounding death. Dickinson’s lasting impact on poetry is a testament to her ability to capture the essence of life and death.

1, Because I could not stop for Death (479) © Emily Dickinson

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 labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—

2, Said Death To Passion © Emily Dickinson

Said Death to Passion
‘Give of thine an Acre unto me.’
Said Passion, through contracting Breaths
‘A Thousand Times Thee Nay.’

Bore Death from Passion
All His East
He – sovereign as the Sun
Resituated in the West
And the Debate was done.

3, Death is like the insect © Emily Dickinson

Death is like the insect
Menacing the tree,
Competent to kill it,
But decoyed may be.

Bait it with the balsam,
Seek it with the saw,
Baffle, if it cost you
Everything you are.

Then, if it have burrowed
Out of reach of skill –
Wring the tree and leave it,
‘Tis the vermin’s will.

4, The Manner Of Its Death © Emily Dickinson

The Manner of its Death
When Certain it must die—
‘Tis deemed a privilege to choose—
‘Twas Major Andre’s Way—

When Choice of Life—is past—
There yet remains a Love
Its little Fate to stipulate—

How small in those who live—

The Miracle to tease
With Bable of the styles—
How “they are Dying mostly—now”—
And Customs at “St. James”!

5, Robbed By Death—but That Was Easy © Emily Dickinson

Robbed by Death—but that was easy—
To the failing Eye
I could hold the latest Glowing—
Robbed by Liberty

For Her Jugular Defences—
This, too, I endured—
Hint of Glory—it afforded—
For the Brave Beloved—

Fraud of Distance—Fraud of Danger,
Fraud of Death—to bear—
It is Bounty—to Suspense’s
Vague Calamity—

Stalking our entire Possession
On a Hair’s result—
Then—seesawing—coolly—on it—
Trying if it split—

6, There’s Been A Death In The Opposite House © Emily Dickinson

There’s been a death in the opposite house
As lately as to-day.
I know it by the numb look
Such houses have alway.

The neighbors rustle in and out,
The doctor drives away.
A window opens like a pod,
Abrupt, mechanically;

Somebody flings a mattress out,–
The children hurry by;
They wonder if It died on that,–
I used to when a boy.

The minister goes stiffly in
As if the house were his,
And he owned all the mourners now,
And little boys besides;

And then the milliner, and the man
Of the appalling trade,
To take the measure of the house.
There’ll be that dark parade

Of tassels and of coaches soon;
It’s easy as a sign,–
The intuition of the news
In just a country town.

7, Love—is That Later Thing Than Death © Emily Dickinson

Love—is that later Thing than Death—
More previous—than Life—
Confirms it at its entrance—And
Usurps it—of itself—

Tastes Death—the first—to hand the sting
The Second—to its friend—
Disarms the little interval—
Deposits Him with God—

Then hovers—an inferior Guard—
Lest this Beloved Charge
Need—once in an Eternity—
A smaller than the Large—

8, Till Death—is Narrow Loving © Emily Dickinson

Till Death—is narrow Loving—
The scantest Heart extant
Will hold you till your privilege
Of Finiteness—be spent—

But He whose loss procures you
Such Destitution that
Your Life too abject for itself
Thenceforward imitate—

Until—Resemblance perfect—
Yourself, for His pursuit
Delight of Nature—abdicate—
Exhibit Love—somewhat—

9, The Test Of Love—is Death © Emily Dickinson

The Test of Love—is Death—
Our Lord—”so loved”—it saith—
What Largest Lover—hath
Another—doth—

If smaller Patience—be—
Through less Infinity—
If Bravo, sometimes swerve—
Through fainter Nerve—

Accept its Most—
And overlook—the Dust—
Last—Least—
The Cross’—Request—

10, Unit, Like Death, For Whom? © Emily Dickinson

Unit, like Death, for Whom?
True, like the Tomb,
Who tells no secret
Told to Him—
The Grave is strict—
Tickets admit
Just two—the Bearer—
And the Borne—
And seat—just One—
The Living—tell—
The Dying—but a Syllable—
The Coy Dead—None—
No Chatter—here—no tea—
So Babbler, and Bohea—stay there—
But Gravity—and Expectation—and Fear—
A tremor just, that All’s not sure.

11, Wait Till The Majesty Of Death © Emily Dickinson

Wait till the Majesty of Death
Invests so mean a brow!
Almost a powdered Footman
Might dare to touch it now!

Wait till in Everlasting Robes
That Democrat is dressed,
Then prate about “Preferment”—
And “Station,” and the rest!

Around this quiet Courtier
Obsequious Angels wait!
Full royal is his Retinue!
Full purple is his state!

A Lord, might dare to lift the Hat
To such a Modest Clay
Since that My Lord, “the Lord of Lords”
Receives unblushingly!

12, Suspense—is Hostiler Than Death © Emily Dickinson

Suspense—is Hostiler than Death—
Death—tho’soever Broad,
Is Just Death, and cannot increase—
Suspense—does not conclude—

But perishes—to live anew—
But just anew to die—
Annihilation—plated fresh
With Immortality—

13, It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up © Emily Dickinson

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,–
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And ‘t was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos,–stopless, cool,–
Without a chance or spar,–
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

14, For Death—or Rather © Emily Dickinson

For Death—or rather
For the Things ‘twould buy—
This—put away
Life’s Opportunity—

The Things that Death will buy
Are Room—
Escape from Circumstances—
And a Name—

With Gifts of Life
How Death’s Gifts may compare—
We know not—
For the Rates—lie Here—

15, Death Is Potential To That Man © Emily Dickinson

Death is potential to that Man
Who dies—and to his friend—
Beyond that—unconspicuous
To Anyone but God—

Of these Two—God remembers
The longest—for the friend—
Is integral—and therefore
Itself dissolved—of God—

16, Death Sets A Thing Of Signigicant © Emily Dickinson

Death sets a thing significant
The eye had hurried by,
Except a perished creature
Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanships
In crayon or in wool,
With ‘This was last her fingers did,’
Industrious until

The thimble weighed too heavy,
The stitches stopped themselves,
And then ‘t was put among the dust
Upon the closet shelves.

A book I have, a friend gave,
Whose pencil, here and there,
Had notched the place that pleased him,–
At rest his fingers are.

Now, when I read, I read not,
For interrupting tears
Obliterate the etchings
Too costly for repairs.

17, Bereavement In Their Death To Feel © Emily Dickinson

Bereavement in their death to feel
Whom We have never seen—
A Vital Kinsmanship import
Our Soul and theirs—between—

For Stranger—Strangers do not mourn—
There be Immortal friends
Whom Death see first—’tis news of this
That paralyze Ourselves—

Who, vital only to Our Thought—
Such Presence bear away
In dying—’tis as if Our Souls
Absconded—suddenly—

18, Death Is A Dialogue Between © Emily Dickinson

Death is a Dialogue between
The Spirit and the Dust.
‘Dissolve’ says Death—The Spirit ‘Sir
I have another Trust’—

Death doubts it—Argues from the Ground—
The Spirit turns away
Just laying off for evidence
An Overcoat of Clay.

19, Absence Disembodies—so Does Death © Emily Dickinson

Absence disembodies—so does Death
Hiding individuals from the Earth
Superposition helps, as well as love—
Tenderness decreases as we prove—

20, All But Death, Can Be Adjusted © Emily Dickinson

All but Death, can be Adjusted—
Dynasties repaired—
Systems—settled in their Sockets—
Citadels—dissolved—

Wastes of Lives—resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs—
Death—unto itself—Exception—
Is exempt from Change—

21, Because I Could Not Stop For Death © Emily Dickinson

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 labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility-

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess- in the Ring-
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain-
We passed the Setting Sun-

Or rather- He passed us-
The Dews drew quivering and chill-
For only Gossamer, my Gown-
My Tippet- only Tulle-

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground-
The Roof was scarcely visible-
The Cornice- in the Ground-

Since then- ’tis Centuries- and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity-