Emily Dickinson — It was not Death for I stood up 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 Sirocos—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