Sonnet ("Where are thy waters, Lethe?)
My past existence in their source, and sleep
In Death's cold sheltering arms, if they but turn
The shafts of grief aside, and keep me free
From all the bitterness of misery.
And all those tyrant agonies, which burn
My brain, and heart eternally. O! Life
Why dost thou love me so--do I not hate
Thee, and thy gifts accursed? --but there’s a strife
My soul has long engaged in — 'tis with fate;
And in my sorrow, I am half elate
With something kin to joy, that I must be
Soon in that conflict vanquished-then from thee
Loathsome existence! shall I separate —