It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down.
It was not night, for all the
Put out their tongues for noon.
It was not frost, for on my fleshI felt siroccos crawl,
Nor fire, for just my marble
Could keep a chancel cool.
And yet it tasted like them all,
The figures I have
Set orderly for
Reminded me of mine,
As if my life were
And fitted to a
And could not breathe without a key,
And 'twas like midnight, some,
When everything that ticked has
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
To justify despair.6. siroccos: hot moist winds, as those from the Libyan desert blowing across the Mediterranean towards Italy8. chancel: part of a church holding the altar and the choir 22. spar: a strong pole or mast
