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.
