Sonnet: 7: To the Grave

TO THE GRAVE

There is a couch, whereon we all must lie;
There is a pillow, where the burning thought
Will find the oblivious ease it long has sought,
And memory will close her wakeful eye,
And conscience spread her vulture wings, and fly
To find on Caucasus another prey,
Where she may pounce and pounce, from day to day,
The heart that longs for death, but will not die;
And there forgetfulness has drawn around
Her raven curtain, and her hand has sealed
The inflamed eye of sorrow, and has bound
The venomed gash of early wrong, and healed
The spirit's every malady; for deep
We fall in dreamless, unawakening sleep.
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