When on my bed in wakeful restlessness,
I turn me, weary: while all around,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness,
I only wake to watch the sickly taper that lights,
Me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand of death
I feel press heavy on my vitals;
Slow sapping the warm current of existence;
My moments now are few! e'en now
I feel the knife, the separating knife, divide
The tender chords that tie my soul