Doomed to drag with slow progressive steps to death’s dark door,
From whence no one hath e’er returned,
O, can the right of death which he sees always just before,
Be darker than with painful lips conjoined.
With paralytic trembling steps and aching head and heart,
with hopes all blasted here below,
Why from thy form of suffering should I not long to part,
And rise where pleasures ever glow.
Come, welcome death in thy cold arms embrace my falling clay,
Come, bright and lovely angels from above,
Bear me to healthful paradise to life’s eternal cloudless day,
Where all is health, light, life and love.
(signed) B. T. R. Foster
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