Trying To Forget.

Bereaved of all, I went abroad, No less bereaved to be Upon a new peninsula,— The grave preceded me, Obtained my lodgings ere myself, And when I sought my bed, The grave it was, reposed upon The pillow for my head. I waked, to find it first awake, I rose,—it followed me; I tried to drop it in the crowd, To lose it in the sea, In cups of artificial drowse To sleep its shape away,— The grave was finished, but the spade Remained in memory.