Dying

XXV. 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.

 

from Poems by Emily Dickinson (1890)
"Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?"	"Two swimmers wrestled on a spar"

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