It was not death, for I stood up,And all the dead lie down.It was not night, for all the bellsPut out their tongues for noon.
It was not frost, for on my fleshI felt siroccos crawl,Nor fire, for just my marble feetCould keep a chancel cool.
And yet it tasted like them all,The figures I have seenSet orderly for burialReminded me of mine,
As if my life were shavenAnd fitted to a frameAnd could not breathe without a key,And 'twas like midnight, some,
When everything that ticked has stoppedAnd 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 landTo justify despair.
