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It was not Death for I stood up

 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.

Poem by Emily Dickinson
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