Trying To Forget.

A poem by Emily Dickinson

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.

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