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. | |
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It was not frost, for on my flesh | 5 |
I felt siroccos crawl,— | |
Nor fire, for just my marble feet | |
Could keep a chancel cool. | |
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And yet it tasted like them all; | |
The figures I have seen | 10 |
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; | 15 |
And ’t was like midnight, some, | |
|
When everything that ticked has stopped, | |
And space stares, all around, | |
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns, | |
Repeal the beating ground. | 20 |
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But most like chaos,—stopless, cool,— | |
Without a chance or spar, | |
Or even a report of land | |
To justify despair. | |