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.