510

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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