Dying. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The sun kept setting, setting still;
    No hue of afternoon
    Upon the village I perceived, —
    From house to house ‘t was noon.

    The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;
    No dew upon the grass,
    But only on my forehead stopped,
    And wandered in my face.

    My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,
    My fingers were awake;
    Yet why so little sound myself
    Unto my seeming make?

    How well I knew the light before!
    I could not see it now.
    ‘T is dying, I am doing; but
    I’m not afraid to know.