Willa Cather

Just a quote that sets up dying with the up most peace and understanding. From Death Comes for the Archbishop:

In New Mexico he always awoke a young man; not until he rose and began to shave did he realize  that he was growing older. His first consciousness was of the light dry wind blowing in through the window.  With the fragrance of hot sun and sage brush and sweet clover; that made ones body feel light and ones heart cry  “to-day, to-day,” like a child’s.

Beautiful surroundings, the society of learned men, the charm of noble women, the graces of art, could not make up to him for the loss of the light-hearted, mornings of the desert, for that wind that made one a boy again. He had noticed that this peculiar quality in the air of new countries vanished after they were tamed by man and made to bear harvest. Parts of Texas and Kansas that he had first known as open range had since been made into rich farming districts, and the air had quite lost that lightness, that dry aromatic odour. The moisture of plowed land and growth and grain bearing, had utterly destroyed it; one could breath that only on the bright edges of the world, on the great grass plains on the sage-brush desert.

That air would disappear from the whole earth in time, perhaps; but long after his day. He did not know when it had become so necessary to him, but he had come back to die in exile for the sake of it  Something wild and soft and free, something that whispered to the ear on the pillow, lightened the heart, softly, softly picked the lock,  slid the bolt,  and released the prisoned spirit of man into the wind, into the blue and gold, into the morning into the morning!

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New York Minning Disaster

They blew out their lamps to save on air, and darkness surrounded them. None spoke. All they could hear in the dark was the sound of water dripping from the ceiling every five seconds.

“OK, everybody, try not to breathe so much. We don’t have much air left.” and old miner said. He held his  voice to a whisper, but even so the wooden beams on the ceiling of the tunnel creaked faintly. In the dark, the miners huddled together, straining to hear one sound. The sound of pickaxes. The sound of life.

They waited for hours. Reality began to melt away in the darkness. Everything began to feel as if it were happening a long time ago, in a world far away. Or was it happening in the future in a different far-off world?

Outside, people were digging a hole, trying to reach them. It was like a scene from a movie.

To my shadow

From History of the Nıght:

The sword wıll dıe just lıke the rıpenıng cluster.

The glass ıs no more fragıle than the rock

All thıngs are thıer own prophecy of dust.

Iron ıs rust. The voıce, already echo.

Adam, the youthful father, ıs your ashes.

The fınal garden wıll also be the fırst.

The nıghtıngale and Pındar both are voıces.

The dawn ıs a reflectıon of the sunset.

The mycenean, hıs burıal mask of gold.

The hıghest wall, the humılıated ruın.

Urquıza, he whom daggers left behınd.

The face that looks upon ıtself ın the mırror

Is not the face of yesterday. The nıght

Has spent ıt. Delıcate tıme has molded us.

 

What joy to be the ınvulnerable water

That ran assuredly through the parable

Of Heraclıtus, or the ıntrıcate fıre,

But now, on thıs long day that doesn’t end,

I feel ırrevocable and       alone.

Borges

Jorge Luis Borges is the Shiz so here is a poem that I think is pretty swell.
Slow in the dawn, a young man, hollow-eyed
from lengthy thought and unrewarding vigils,
is lost in his reflections, contemplating
the sleepless braziers and the silent stills.
He knows that gold, that Proteus, is lurking
in all chance happenings, like destiny;
he knows it hides in the dust along the way,
in the action of the bow, the arm, the arrow.
His occult vision of a secret being
hidden in the stars and in raw earth
echoes that other dream, that everything
is water, the dream of Thales of Miletus.
There’s another vision, that of an eternal
God who appears in every single thing,
as Spinoza the geometer explains
in a book more tortuous than all of Hell.
In the vast blue expanses to the west,
the planets are beginning to grow pale.
The alchemist is thinking of his secrets,
the secret laws that link planet and metal.
And while he dreams of finding in the fire
that true gold that will put an end to dying,
God, who knows His alchemy, transforms him
to no one, nothing, dust, oblivion.
– A.R.(translator)