By Emily Dickinson She died, —this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

By 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 […]

When I come to the end of the road, and the sun has set for me. I want no rites in a gloom-filled room. Why cry for a soul set free? Miss me a little, but not too long, and not with your head bowed low. Remember the love that was once shared. Miss me, […]