From broken visions of perturbed rest
I wake, and start, ao sleep again.
How total a privation of all sounds,
Sight, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,
Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.
Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry
Of the meic wat, or the noise
Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.
Those are the moanings of the dying man,
Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans.
And interrupted only by a cough
ptive, t the wasted lungs.
So iterness of death he lies,
And waits in anguish for the ms light.
What that do for him, or what restore?
Short taste, faint sense, affeg notices,
And little images of pleasures past,
Of health, and active life--health not yet slain,
Nor the race of life, a good name, sold
For sins black wages. On his tedious bed
He writhes, and turns him from the acg light,
And finds no fort in the sun, but says
"When night es I shall get a little rest."
Some few groans, more, death es, and there an end.……（内容加载失败！）
(ò﹏ò)
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