By George Sterling

Departing troubled to her tryst with Sleep,
    The soul, that night, paused doubtful and afraid
    Within the portals and eternal shade
Of his great temple. All the shapes that sweep
Athwart its twilight, from the abysm they keep
    Rose in tremendous menace. She, dismayed,
    Turned to her day in trembling, nor delayed
Her breathless flight from that portentous deep.

But thou, O Death! shalt feign no dream nor dawn,
    Tho' aeons sunder the hermetic tomb,
    And light annul the mausolean gloom—
Nay! tho' contending sun to sun be drawn
        In ruin that the worlds diffused attest
        To watchers round Arcturus, I shall rest!

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