AFRAID? Of whom am I afraid? Not death; for who is he? The porter of my father’s lodge As much abasheth me.

Because I could not stop for death He kindly stopped for me The carriage held but just ourselves And immortaility.

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

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

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.

And Something's odd - within -That person that I was - And this One - do not feel the same - Could it be Madness - this?"