Trying To Forget. By Emily Dickinson

    Bereaved of all, I went abroad,
    No less bereaved to be
    Upon a new peninsula, —
    The grave preceded me,

    Obtained my lodgings ere myself,
    And when I sought my bed,
    The grave it was, reposed upon
    The pillow for my head.

    I waked, to find it first awake,
    I rose, — it followed me;
    I tried to drop it in the crowd,
    To lose it in the sea,

    In cups of artificial drowse
    To sleep its shape away, —
    The grave was finished, but the spade
    Remained in memory.