Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)

I TOO a sister had! too cruel Death!

How sad remembrance bids my bosom heave!

Tranquil her soul as sleeping infant’s breath;

Meek were her manners as a vernal eve.

Knowledge, that frequent lifts the bloated mind,

Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast;

And Wit, to venomed Malice oft assigned,

Dwelt in her bosom in a turtle’s nest.

Cease, busy Memory! cease to urge the dart,

Nor on my soul her love to me impress!

For oh! I mourn in anguish; and my heart

Feels the keen pang, th’ unutterable distress.

Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease,

For life was misery, and the grave is peace.