Vanished

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.

I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design;
But the success was his, it seems, and the discomfit mine.

I meant to tell her how I longed for just this single time;
But Death had told her so the first, and she had hearkened him.

To wander now is my abode; to rest--to rest would be;
A privilege of hurricane to memory and me.

--Emily Dickinson