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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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.