The Manner of its Death (468) lyrics
by Emily Dickinson
The Manner of its Death
When Certain it must die—
'Tis deemed a privilege to choose—
'Twas Major Andre's Way—
When Choice of Life—is past—
There yet remains a Love
Its little Fate to stipulate—
How small in those who live—
The Miracle to tease
With Bable of the styles—
How "they are Dying mostly—now"—
And Customs at "St. James"!