To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play
In accidental power.
The blond assassin passes on,
The sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another day
For an approving God.
This is poem XXV from the Nature selection.
I gather form reading Emily's poetry that she has a very bizarre comfort when it comes to death. The problems I see here in this poem, and in others, is that she simply expresses that death is a part of life, yet given the idea that her only real audience for these words were herself, it is as though she is often trying to quell her own fears of death, and reassure that everything happens for a reason.