Poem 510


Emily Dickinson

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 Chance, or Spar--

Or even a Report of Land--

To justify--Despair.


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