Classic Poem

When the old flaming prophet climbed the sky,
Who, at one glimpse, did vanish, and not die,
He made more preface to a death, than this:
So far from sick, she did not breathe amiss.
She who to heaven more heaven doth annex,
Whose lowest thought was above all our sex,
Accounted nothing death, but to be reprieved,
And died as free from sickness as she lived.
Others are dragged away or must be driven,
She, only, saw her time and stepped to heaven,
Where Seraphims view all her glories o'er
As one returned, that had been there before.
For while she did this lower world adorn,
Her body seemed rather assumed than born;
So rarefied, advanced, so pure and whole,
That body might have been another's soul;
And equally a miracle it were
That she could die, or that she could live here.