I think sometimes of the possible glamour of death— that it might be wonderful to be lost and happy inside the green grass— or to be the green grass!— or, maybe the pink rose, or the blue iris, or the affable daisy, or the twirled vine looping its way skyward—that it might be perfectly peaceful to be the shining lake, or the hurrying, athletic river, or the dark shoulders of the trees where the thrush each evening weeps himself into an ecstasy.
