








Poem XXIX.

TRYING TO FORGET.

Bereaved of all, I went abroad,
  No less bereaved to be
Upon a new peninsula, --
  The grave preceded me,

Obtained my lodgings ere myself,
  And when I sought my bed,
The grave it was, reposed upon
  The pillow for my head.

I waked, to find it first awake,
  I rose, -- it followed me;
I tried to drop it in the crowd,
  To lose it in the sea,

In cups of artificial drowse
  To sleep its shape away, --
The grave was finished, but the spade
  Remained in memory.






