ANTICIPATIONThe thought of death to meIs like a well of waters, deep and dim—Cool-gleaming, hushed, and hidden gratefullyAmong the palms asleepAt silver evening on the desert’s rim.Or as a couch of stone,Whereon by moonlight, in a marble room,Some fevered king reposes all alone—So is the hope of sleep,The inalienable surety of the tomb.
The thought of death to meIs like a well of waters, deep and dim—Cool-gleaming, hushed, and hidden gratefullyAmong the palms asleepAt silver evening on the desert’s rim.Or as a couch of stone,Whereon by moonlight, in a marble room,Some fevered king reposes all alone—So is the hope of sleep,The inalienable surety of the tomb.
The thought of death to meIs like a well of waters, deep and dim—Cool-gleaming, hushed, and hidden gratefullyAmong the palms asleepAt silver evening on the desert’s rim.Or as a couch of stone,Whereon by moonlight, in a marble room,Some fevered king reposes all alone—So is the hope of sleep,The inalienable surety of the tomb.
The thought of death to meIs like a well of waters, deep and dim—Cool-gleaming, hushed, and hidden gratefullyAmong the palms asleepAt silver evening on the desert’s rim.
The thought of death to me
Is like a well of waters, deep and dim—
Cool-gleaming, hushed, and hidden gratefully
Among the palms asleep
At silver evening on the desert’s rim.
Or as a couch of stone,Whereon by moonlight, in a marble room,Some fevered king reposes all alone—So is the hope of sleep,The inalienable surety of the tomb.
Or as a couch of stone,
Whereon by moonlight, in a marble room,
Some fevered king reposes all alone—
So is the hope of sleep,
The inalienable surety of the tomb.