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.
(1862)