Fortune befriends the bold. - 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 I 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.

I never spoke — unless addressed — And then, 'twas brief and low — I could not bear to live — aloud — The Racket shamed me so — And if it had not been so far — And any one I knew
Were going — I had often thought
How noteless — I could die —

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