It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up, By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

 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.