It was not death, for I stood up (335)
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.
它不是死亡，因我仍直立，
逝者皆卧伏；
它不是黑夜， 因钟声盘旋
为正午鸣呜。
它不是寒霜， 因我肌肤仍温
如有暖风摩挲
它不是烈火，因我足如岗岩
令祭坛冷漠。
但它含着这一切
我曾见众人
为葬礼而列，
引我思我葬殡，
犹如我的生命被削刮，
塞入一木框，
呼吸竟需钥匙；
我心如午夜怅惘，
众生无息
仅苍穹呆视，
又如寒霜， 临早秋清晨，
掠大地生机。
我心更是混沌， 凄冷， 颠簸不息，
不见转机， 不见帆柱可傍，
更不见陆地可栖，
从何言绝望。
