(WRITTEN WHILE CONFINED TO HER BED DURING HER LAST ILLNESS) There is a something which I dread, It is a dark, a fearful thing; It steals along with withering tread, Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. That thought comes o'er me in the hour Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness; 'T is not the dread of death -- 't is more, It is the dread of madness. Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause, Forgetful of their feverish course; May this hot brain, which burning, glows With all a fiery whirlpool's force, Be cold, and motionless, and still, A tenant of its lowly bed, But let not dark delirium steal -- (Final poem) | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD: PASTORAL 3. THE HAPPY COUNTRYMAN by NICHOLAS BRETON AN EPITAPH by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE CHOIRMASTER'S BURIAL by THOMAS HARDY LAYS OF FRANCE: SONG (2) by MARIE DE FRANCE ON CRITICS; IN IMITATION OF ANACREON by MATTHEW PRIOR |