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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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.