ELEGY.
Reading edition
Sleep on my love, in thy cold bed, Never to be disquieted! My last good night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake, Till age, or grief, or sickness, must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves, and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there; I will not fail To meet thee in that narrow vale; And think not much of my delay: I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. For hark! my heart, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come; And howe'er long my marches be, I shall at last lie down by thee. **** Each minute is a short degree, And every hour a step toward thee; At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive The crime: I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. —Henry King.