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'It was not Death, for I stood up'

by 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.