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，
逝者皆臥伏；
它不是黑夜， 因鍾聲盤旋
為正午鳴嗚。
它不是寒霜， 因我肌膚仍溫
如有暖風摩挲
它不是烈火，因我足如崗岩
令祭壇冷漠。
但它味含這一切
我曾見眾人
為葬禮而列，
引我思我葬殯，
猶如我的生命被削刮，
塞入一木框，
呼吸竟需鑰匙；
我心如午夜悵惘，
眾生無息
僅蒼穹呆視，
又如寒霜， 臨早秋清晨，
掠大地生機。
我心更是混沌， 淒冷， 顛簸不息，
不見轉機， 不見帆柱可傍，
更不見陸地可棲，
從何言絕望。
