This is not Life, but something worse than Death

That I in your dear thoughts no more am bound,

That I were better buried underground

In some lone place where green grass hearkeneth

To desolated Love with bated breath:

For then, perhaps, at last, some peace were found

For lost love resting ’neath that green-grass mound

Deaf to the taunts Remembrance whispereth.

Death is no agony but softest sleep

Of non-remembrance without any dream

Which on the tired soul doth gently creep:

But ah! what bitter torture would it be

For each man dead, to wake in death and see

How dead he is, how dear though he did seem!