XXV
Dying
The sun kept setting, setting still;No hue of afternoonUpon the village I perceived,—From house to house ‘t was noon.
The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;No dew upon the grass,But only on my forehead stopped,And wandered in my face.
My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,My fingers were awake;Yet why so little sound myselfUnto my seeming make?
How well I knew the light before!I could not see it now.‘T is dying, I am doing; butI’m not afraid to know.