Love Dreaming of Death

I dreamt my little Boys were dead, And I was sitting wild and lone: On my unmoving knees, my head Lay rigid as a stone.

And there I sate without a tear, And though I drew Life's conscious breath, All life to me was cold and drear And comfortless as death.

So time-destroying was my grief, Time moved not, neither slow nor fast; Nor reck'd I, whether periods brief Or centuries had passed.

It was as if to marble cold My loss had petrified the air, And I was shut within its hold, Made deathless by despair.

And more the gorgon horror crushed With dry petrific pressure in, Till forth my waking spirit rushed With agonising din!

And oh! what joy it was to wake— To cast that haggard dream away, And from its stony influence break, Into the living day.

I sought the objects of my care, And felt, while I embraced the twain, How much even from a dream's despair A Father's love may gain.