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.