Antepast

by

Clark Ashton Smith


The thought of death to me

Is like a well in some oasis dim—

Cool-hidden, hushed, and hidden gratefully

Among the palms asleep

At silver evening on the desert's rim.


Or as a couch of stone,

Whereon, by moonlight, in a marble room,

Some fevered king reposes all alone—

So is the hope of sleep,

The inalienable surety of the tomb.



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