Sonnet XCVII

TO A COFFIN-LID.

Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep,

Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes,

All the dire train of ills Existence knows,

Thou shuttest out FOR EVER!—Why then weep

This fix'd tranquillity,—so long!—so deep!

In a dear Father's clay-cold Form?—where rose

No energy, enlivening Health bestows,

Thro' many a tedious year, that us'd to creep

In languid deprivation; while the flame

Of intellect, resplendent once confess'd,

Dark, and more dark, each passing day became.

Now that angelic lights the Soul invest,

Calm let me yield to thee a joyless Frame,

Thou silent Door of everlasting Rest.