Confusion (IV)

Oh! What an impulse, what a whim

                To ride the seraphim,

To sail upon a bare-backed boat

                And upset Charon’s moat—

I made the Reaper e’en more grim;

                 My joy spills o’er the brim—

And in the darkness of your throat

                I pray my dreams will float,

For I know not if mine is still

                The love you gave to me—

Despair I taste, yet joy I feel—

                In despondence I see

My eyelids fall, and death will steal

                My sleep, eventually.   

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