222 POEMS.

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TT 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,

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