Poem 6 (J 281: 1861/1935)
"Tis so appalling--it exhilarates--
The Soul stares after it, secure--
To scan a Ghost, is faint--
But grappling, conquers it--
How easy Torment, now--
Suspense kept sawing so--
The Truth, is Bald, and Cold--
But that will hold--
If any are not sure--
We show them--prayer--
But we, who know,
Stop hoping, now--
Looking at Death, is Dying--
Just let go the Breath--
And not the pillow at your Cheek
So Slumbereth--
Others, Can wrestle--
Yours, is done--
And so of Woe, bleak dreaded--come,
It sets the Fright at liberty--
And Terror's free--
Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!
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