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 Sirocos—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