I Think I Shall Be Among The

His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless, Dead, Unsceptred; And His Realmless Eyes Were Closed.

All Clean And Comfortable I Sit Down To Write.

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.

Sudden A Thought Came Like A Full-blown Rose, Flushing His Brow.

Dancing Music, Music Sad, Both Together, Sane And Mad.