А умерла она вот как.
Едва затихла грудь,
Простое платье припасла
И к солнцу вышла в путь.
Фигурку ангелы у врат
Заметили – как знать –
Но между смертных всуе мне
С тех пор её искать.



Emily Dickinson

150

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.