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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XXVIII
XXX

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.