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