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. Lichfield, March 1790.
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"Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep,..."
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