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
Death may be the greatest
of all human blessings.
- Socrates
Poems About Death
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