Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
III. Oblivion
By Archibald Lampman (1861–1899)
I LIKE to stretch full-length upon my bed,
  Sometimes, when I am weary body and mind,
  And think that I shall some day lie thus, blind
And cold, and motionless, my last word said.
How grim it were, how piteous to be dead!        5
  And yet how sweet, to hear no more, nor see,
  Sleeping, past care, through all eternity,
With clay for pillow to the clay-cold head.
And I should seem so absent, so serene:
  They who should see me in that hour would ask        10
What spirit, or what fire, could ever have been
  Within that yellow and discoloured mask;
For there seems life in lead, or in a stone,
But in a soul’s deserted dwelling none.

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