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
It felt siroccos crawl;
Now 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-

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