DYING

❦

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.

More poems by Emily Dickinson

I had been hungry all the years; / My noon had come, to dine;

THE butterfly obtains / But little sympathy,

Went up a year this evening! / I recollect it well!

ALL circumstances are the frame / In which His Face is set,