It was not Death, for I stood up

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down - 

 It twas 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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