Poem: Dying


 The sun kept setting, setting still; No hue of afternoon Upon the village I perceived, - From house to house 'twas 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. 'Tis dying, I am doing; but I'm not afraid to know. 
See also: