Death, the Friend.
FULL long these dreary weeks of dule I spend
On this my narrow bed of bitter pain.
Alike to me are sunshine, cloud or rain,
The day’s beginning or its sombre end;
Even sleep itself doth little comfort lend,
For in vast dreams the torment comes again
Vague and distorted by my feverish brain
Until I wake and long for Death the Friend.
Death! I do fear that empty, breathless Night
Thou bringest, not the sweat and agony,
The struggling breath, the terror or the sight
Of Earth and all my being leaving me;
For couldst thou promise an awakening—
Then, Death, enfold me with thy shadowy wing!...