It was not Death, for I stood up.

"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~