Funeral Chaplain

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Home > Other Readings > Poetry > Vanished

Vanished

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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.

 

Author: Emily Dickinson

 

 


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