355 (“It was not Death, for I stood up”)
 

by 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  5
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  10
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; 15
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 — 20
   
But most like Chaos — Stopless — cool —  
Without a Chance, or spar —  
Or even a Report of Land —  
To justify — Despair.  
   
 
Siroccos — a name for winds that blow from the Sahara desert. They gather humidity over the Mediterranean, so when they reach Italy and the Mediterranean islands they are hot and humid.
Chancel — the space around the altar in a church
shaven, /And fitted to a frame — a metaphor taken from tanning leather:  animal skins are shaved to remove their fur, then stretched over a wooden frame and treated with chemicals.
 
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