150
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.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- How Many Flowers Fail In Wood
- Till Death—is Narrow Loving
- Two—were Immortal Twice
- Uncertain Lease—develops Lustre
- The Cricket Sang,