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 Sirocos - crawl -
For 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 Chance, or Spar -
Or even a Resort of Land -
To justify - Despair.

	Created by katie.browell over 11 years ago

Emily Dickinson