XXXV
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 burial,Reminded me of mine,
As if my life were shavenAnd fitted to a frame,And could not breathe without a key;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.
But most like chaos,—stopless, cool,—Without a chance or spar,Or even a report of landTo justify despair.