“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.”