Sonnet XCVII: To a Coffin-Lid

Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep,
Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes,
All the dire train of ills Existence knows,
Thou shuttest out FOR EVER!--Why then weep
This fix'd tranquillity,--so long!--so deep!
In a dear FATHER's clay-cold Form?--where rose
No energy, enlivening Health bestows,
Thro' many a tedious year, that us'd to creep
In languid deprivation; while the flame
Of intellect, resplendent once confess'd,
Dark, and more dark, each passing day became.
Now that angelic lights the SOUL invest,
Calm let me yield to thee a joyless Frame,
THOU SILENT DOOR OF EVERLASTING REST.