2021-06-15 01:12:14
THE STRANGER'S DOOM.
They gathered round his dying bed, His failing eye was glazed and dim; But 'mong the many gazers, there Were none who wept or cared for him. Oh! 'tis a sad, a fearful thing, To die with none but strangers near; To see within the darkened room No face, no form, to memory dear! To hear no loved, familiar voice -- Earth's sweetest music to the last; No whispered prayer, no stifled sob, Not e'en an echo from the past! To feel, when deeper still the shades Of death have gathered o'er the brain, No clasping hand, no farewell kiss, Pressed on the brow, again -again ! Yet thus he died- afar from all Who might have mourned his early doom ! Strange hands his drooping eyelids closed, And bore him to his nameless tomb. They laid him where tall forest trees Cast their dark shadows o'er his bed, And hurriedly, in silence, heaped The wild-grass turf above his head. None prayed, none wept, when all was o'er, Nor lingered near the sacred spot; But turned them to the world again, And soon his very name forgot.
-Edgar Allan Poe
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