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 't was 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.