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510 It was not Death, for I stood up, And all the Dead, lie down— It was not Night, for all the Bells Put out their Tongues, for Noon. It was not Frost, for on my Flesh I felt Siroccos—crawl— Nor Fire—for just my Marble feet Could keep a Chancel, cool— And yet, it tasted, like them all, The Figures I have seen Set orderly, for Burial, Reminded me, of mine— As if my life were shaven, And fitted to a frame, And could not breathe without a key, And 'twas like Midnight, some - When everything that ticked—has stopped— And Space stares all around— Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns, Repeal the Beating Ground— But, most, like Chaos - Stopless—cool— Without a Change, or Spar— Or even a Report of Land— To justify—Despair.
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:55 PM | Viewed: 11606 times
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Emily Dickinson
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