slouched in the chair and head bent backwards noticing the cracking paint on the windowsill / not yet
A train went through a burial gate,
A bird broke forth and sang,
And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat
Till all the churchyard rang;
And then adjusted his little notes,
And bowed and sang again.
Doubtless, he thought it meet of him
To say good-by to men.
Too happy Time dissolves itself
And leaves no remnant by -
‘Tis Anguish not a Feather hath
Or too much weight to fly -
— Emily Dickinson, poems 1761 & 1774