But from my couch, I rais’d my head,
And op’d mine eyes, to look once more
On what, for me, should soon be o’er,
And then I said—or thought, or seem’d
To be repeating, while I dream’d
Away my ebbing hour of breath—
To leave this all, oh this is death!
XV.
My couch was by a lattic’d door,
With diamond panes, of olden making,