Because I could not stop for death,
I stopped for Emily Dickinson instead.
She had some good to say to me,
which I promptly forgot, being
deficient with my attention.

I remember — some pithy pith —
and dashes well-placed —
no one knew Emily until she passed
and more’s the pity — or
did obscurity make her strong?

I hid my light
under a bushel
and waited for someone
to peer under the basket
and cry, “Oh, look! a light!”

but no one came
and no one cried
and I went along on
my not-so-merry way
until the day

that I put away my childish bushel
and stood on the feet God gave me
and said, “Looky here, world!
I am not a number, I am a free man!”
and precious few spotted the reference.

but for one I
didn’t quit after
one meager effort
and I resolved
to keep shouting.

Looky here, world!
Looky here!