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.
Cookies on Poetry Cove
We use cookies to remember your language preference and — only with your consent — to learn how Poetry Cove is used. You can change your mind any time.