As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame
And could not breathe without a key
And ‘twas like Midnight, some —

When everything that ticked — has stopped —
And Space stares all around —
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns Repeal the Beating Ground —

But, most, like Chaos — Stopless — cool—
Without a Chance, or Spar —
Or even a Report of Land —
To justify — Despair
— Emily Dickinson