Poem to Emily Dickinson

To die by oneself, overnight, as the flower dies, requires

courage.

Men of God! we die a little each time we chant a prepara-

tion:

At death, there is very little left to die.

To die and to take the silence with one-

We leave, jealous of the living,

So that it is almost as if it had not been:

This is the true immortality.