When death comes

　　like the hungry bear in autumn；

　　when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

　　to buy me， and snaps the purse shut；

　　when death comes

　　like the measle-pox

　　when death comes

　　like an iceberg¹ between the shoulder blades，

　　I want to step through the door full of curiosity， wondering：

　　what is it going to be like， that cottage of darkness？

　　And therefore I look upon everything

　　as a brotherhood² and a sisterhood，

　　and I look upon time as no more than an idea，

　　and I consider eternity³ as another possibility，

　　and I think of each life as a flower， as common

　　as a field daisy， and as singular，

　　and each name a comfortable music in the mouth，

　　tending， as all music does， toward silence，

　　and each body a lion of courage， and something

　　precious to the earth.

　　When it's over， I want to say all my life

　　I was a bride married to amazement⁴.

　　I was the bridegroom， taking the world into my arms.

　　When it's over， I don't want to wonder

　　if I have made of my life something particular， and real.

　　I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened，

　　or full of argument.

　　I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.