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 the 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.

Mary Oliver