Sonnet XCVII. To A Coffin-Lid.

A poem by Anna Seward

Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep,
Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes,
All the dire train of ills Existence knows,
Thou shuttest out FOR EVER! - Why then weep
This fix'd tranquillity, - so long! - so deep!
In a dear FATHER's clay-cold Form? - where rose
No energy, enlivening Health bestows,
Thro' many a tedious year, that us'd to creep
In languid deprivation; while the flame
Of intellect, resplendent once confess'd,
Dark, and more dark, each passing day became.
Now that angelic lights the SOUL invest,
Calm let me yield to thee a joyless Frame,

Lichfield, March 1790.

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