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.

That I shall love always,
I argue thee
that love is life,
and life hath immortality

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

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.

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