Sonnet: 11

My hand is clasped upon my burning brow,
And pressed to ease the tortures of my brain;
I seek to cool my parched thirst, but in vain,
The unpitying fiend no respite will allow, —
My life consumes within me with a slow,
Delirious fever, — in a heavy chain
Depression fetters all my hopes, — again
No days in love and innocence shall flow.
We might have been, — that is the maddening thought
Which gnaws my heart untiring, — I have thrown.
The jewel of my life away: — I sought
Bliss high and perfect; but the prize has flown,
And I must grope in darkness, till I fall,
And slumber in the grave that shrouds my being's all.
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