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 Change, or Spar-
Or even a Report of Land-
To justify-Despair.