I reason, earth is short

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I reason, earth is short,
And anguish absolute,
And many hurt;
But what of that?

I reason, we could die:
The best vitality
Cannot excel decay;
But what of that?

I reason that in heaven
Somehow, it will be even,
Some new equation given;
But what of that?

More poems by Emily Dickinson

ON my volcano grows the grass,– / A meditative spot,

Because I could not stop for Death, / He kindly stopped for me;

If I may have it when it's dead / I will contented be;

To learn the transport by the pain, / As blind men learn the sun;