Tuesday, 18 May 2010
'Tis a fearful thing to be no more,
Or if it be, to wander after death;
To walk, as spirits do, in brakes all day;
And when the darkness comes to glide in paths
That lead to graves; and, in the silent vault,
Where lies your own pale shroud,to hover o'er it,
Striving to enter your forbidden corpse.