To the Same

In my sick fantasies, I've pictured thee Ill—dying—dead,—the damp close smell of death Hanging upon thy curtains, like the breath Of that which breathes no longer; heavily Thy marble fingers lie above the shroud― Cold—stiff—unanswering the warm touch of mine; Thy teeth press on thy lips—a fearful sign— For round those lips what golden memories crowd! Thine eye is worse than meaningless,—it stares With glazed and frightful apathy—a thing That seems to say the dead is suffering Mysterious pain; then horribly there glares The funeral pomp before me, plumed and slow: There's meaning in a dream that can distract me so.