““When I die and you, meadow,
Become something strange to me,
There will be better meadows
For the better self I’ll be.
And the flowers that are beautiful
In the fields I see down here
Will be stars of many colors
In the vast fields there.
And perhaps my heart, seeing
That other nature, more natural
Than the vision that fooled us
Into thinking it was real,
Will, like a bird at last alighting
On a branch, look back and recall
This flight of existence
As nothing at all.”
