I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? “For beauty,” I replied. “And I for truth,—the two are one; We brethren are,” he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.

She died–this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find herUpon the mortal side.

Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath.

We do not play on Graves—Because there isn’t Room—Besides—it isn’t even—it slantsAnd People come—And put a Flower on it—And hang their faces so—We’re fearing that their Hearts will drop—And crush our pretty play—And so we move as farAs Enemies—away—Just looking round to see how farIt is—Occasionally—

My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveil A third event to me,So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.

I wonder if it hurts to live,And if they have to try,And whether, could they choose between,They would not rather die.

The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth,–The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity

Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.