Poems (Cook)/Sonnet

by Eliza Cook

For works with similar titles, see Sonnet.

 

SONNET.

'Tis midnight! and pale Melancholy stands Beside me, wearing a funereal wreath Of yew and cypress: the faint dirge of DeathMoans in her breathing, while her withered hands  Fling corse-bedecking rosemary around.She offers nightshade, spreads a winding-sheet,Points to the clinging clay upon her feet, And whispers tidings of the charnel-ground.Oh! pray thee, Melancholy, do not bring These bitter emblems with thee! I can bearWith all but these 'tis these, oh God! that wring And plunge my heart in maddening despair.Hence, for awhile, pale Melancholy; go!And let sweet slumber lull my weeping woe.