  1 Ha! help!—'twas palpable! A ghost that thronged Up from the mind or hell Of one I wronged! 2 'Tis past and—silence!—naught!— A vision born Of the scared mind o'erwrought With dreams forlorn: 3 The bastard brood of Death And Sleep that wakes Grim fancies with its breath, And reason shakes. 4 Would that the grave could rot Like flesh the soul, Gnaw through with worms and not Leave it thus whole, 5 More than it was in earth Beyond the grave, Much more in death than birth To conscience slave! |
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