Dying
by Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)
The sun kept setting, setting still ;
No hue of afternoon
Upon the village I perceived, —
From house to house 't was noon.
The dusk kept dropping, dropping still ;
No dew upon the grass,
But only on my forehead stopped,
And wandered in my face.
My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,
My fingers were awake ;
Yet why so little sound myself
Unto my seeming make ?
How well I knew the light before !
I could not see it now.
'T is dying, I am doing ; but
I'm not afraid to know.
Source: Wikisource
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