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.

Emily Dickinson’s “It Was Not Death”, first published in 1891.