In the quiet of her chamber, she would weave,
Tales of shadows, where none would grieve.
Death, a gentle visitor, not to fear,
Whispered truths that only she could hear.

Through the slant of light, so soft and rare,
She penned the end with utmost care.
An eternal sleep, a peace profound,
In her words, solace can be found.

The reaper’s call, a kind embrace,
In her verses, it found a place.
A journey to the unknown, so serene,
Captured in her lines, a silent dream.

Her soul departed, yet she’s near,
In every word that we revere.
A poet’s end, a timeless breath,
Emily Dickinson, the bride of Death.