Fear, Anticipation, Mystery, Finality: The Hour of Death

The Oxford Book of Death

by

D.J. Enright

"Death does not leave us body enough to occupy any space, and only the tombs there preserve some shape;..."

~ Bossuet (1670) (as cited in Enright 44)

           When we die, death strips us of everything. Our body is still there, however it is reduced to merely anatomy. Someone could look at the body; they will find a cardiovascular system, a nervous system, a muscle system, a reproductive system, and a digestive system, but the "thing." the part of the organism that makes us different, that makes us truly unique, the essence of the individual is gone. Personally, I can take the word tombs, in this case, to define two different things. The first definition is the the tomb is the body and even in death, the body maintains some semblance of the individual who formally resided within it. Tomb could also literally mean tomb or grave where the remaining semblance of a person is preserved. 

"Because I could not stop for Death--

He kindly stopped for me--

The Carriage held but just Ourselves--

And Immortality.

We slowly drove-- He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labour and my leisure too,

For his civility--

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess-- in the Ring--

We passed Fields of Gazing Grain--

We passed the Setting Sun--

Or rather-- He passed Us--

The Dews drew quivering and chill--

For only Gossamer, my Gown--

My Tippet-- only Tulle--

We pauses before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground--

The Roof was scarcely visible--

The Cornice--in the Ground--

Since then--'tis Centuries-- and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses' Heads 

Were towards Eternity--"

~Emily Dickinson (1830-86) (as cited in Enright 50-51).

               Without getting extremely personal, it is imposable to convey how much and why this poem means so much to me, however, I will say that Emily is one of my favorite poets largely due to this poem. These words encourage me to ponder on my own brush with death and not only that it helps me cope with the memories.

"I have come to the boarder of sleep,

The unfathomable deep

Forest, where all must lose

Their way, however straight

Or winding, soon or late;

They can not choose"

~Edward Thomas (1878-1917) (as cited in Enright).

               I positively love the forest. My whole family does. I grew up going camping, hiking and exploring within the shadows of tall trees, crunching leaves, identifying flowers and plants and generally inhaling joy from the life growing around me. When this poem refers to Death as a forest, it soothes me, and comforts me because, after all I have been there before.