It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up,

Emily 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.

Next 10 Poems

• Emily Dickinson : It Was Not Saint-it Was Too Large-
• Emily Dickinson : It Was Too Late For Man
• Emily Dickinson : It Will Be Summer-eventually
• Emily Dickinson : It Would Have Starved A Gnat
• Emily Dickinson : It Would Never Be Common-more-i Said
• Emily Dickinson : It Would Not Know If It Were Spurned
• Emily Dickinson : It's All I Have To Bring Today
• Emily Dickinson : It's All I Have To Bring To-day,
• Emily Dickinson : It's Coming-the Postponeless Creature
• Emily Dickinson : It's Easy To Invent A Life

Previous 10 Poems

• Emily Dickinson : It Was Given To Me By The Gods
• Emily Dickinson : It Was A Quiet Way-
• Emily Dickinson : It Was A Quiet Seeming Day-
• Emily Dickinson : It Was A Grave, Yet Bore No Stone
• Emily Dickinson : It Troubled Me As Once I Was
• Emily Dickinson : It Tossed-and Tossed
• Emily Dickinson : It Struck Me Every Day
• Emily Dickinson : It Stole Along So Stealthy
• Emily Dickinson : It Sounded As If The Streets Were Running
• Emily Dickinson : It Sifts From Leaden Sieves