This laboring through what is still undone,

as though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way,

is like the akward walking of the swan.

And dying—to let go, no longer feel

the solid ground we stand on every day—

is like anxious letting himself fall

into waters, which receive him gently

and which, as though with reverence and joy,

draw back past him in streams on either side;

while, infinitely silent and aware,

in his full majesty and ever more

indifferent, he condescends to glide.