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.