| 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.
|
| Emily
Dickinson |
Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ Because I could not stop for Death ] [ I heard a Fly buzz-when I died ] [ I cannot live with You ] [ I died for Beauty- but was scarce ] [ It was not Death, for I stood up ] [ My life closed twice before its close ] [ Success is counted sweetest ] |
