SORROW VOICES.
I'll wrap me in my sorrow's ample folds,
As in a winding-sheet; and, doomed to life,
I'll counterfeit the grave. Nor song of bird,
Nor touch of sunbeam, shall call up again
My forehead from the dust. Prone, lying thus,
I hear my dreary years come moaning in
Like cold, slow waves—let them break over me!
Here will I lie, as one in lethargy.
My dumb grief stretched beside me.
Peace! art thou
The first to suffer? Measure with great ills
Thy small adversities! Dispose thyself
To learn life's common and distasteful lesson.
As in a winding-sheet; and, doomed to life,
I'll counterfeit the grave. Nor song of bird,
Nor touch of sunbeam, shall call up again
My forehead from the dust. Prone, lying thus,
I hear my dreary years come moaning in
Like cold, slow waves—let them break over me!
Here will I lie, as one in lethargy.
My dumb grief stretched beside me.
Peace! art thou
The first to suffer? Measure with great ills
Thy small adversities! Dispose thyself
To learn life's common and distasteful lesson.
