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When Death Comes
by Mary Oliver

When death comes
like the hungry bear
in autumn; when death comes
and takes all the bright coins
from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the
purse shut; when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the
shoulder blades, I want to step
through the door full of curiosity,
wondering; what is it going to
be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon
everything as a brotherhood and
a sisterhood, and I look upon time
as no more than an idea, and I
consider eternity
as another possibility,

and I think of each life as
a flower, as common as a
field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable
music in the mouth, tending, as
all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage,
and something precious
to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say:
all my life I was a bride married to
amazement. I was a bridegroom,
taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want
to wonder if I have made of
my life something particular,
and real. I don’t want to find
myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up
simply having visited this world.

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