(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...A DIALOGUE ANTHEM by GEORGE HERBERT THE NATIVE LAND by FRANCISCO DE ALDANA SONG OF SEID NIMETOLLAH OF KUHISTAN by AMIR NURU'D-DIN NI'MATU'LLAH THE LATE STAND-TO by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |