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.
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