Bereft, She Thinks She Dreams

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I dream that the dearest I ever knew
 Has died and been entombed.
I am sure it's a dream that cannot be true,
 But I am so overgloomed
By its persistence, that I would gladly
 Have quick death take me,
Rather than longer think thus sadly;
 So wake me, wake me!


It has lasted days, but minute and hour
 I expect to get aroused
And find him as usual in the bower
 Where we so happily housed.
Yet stays this nightmare too appalling,
 And like a web shakes me,
And piteously I keep on calling,
 And no one wakes me!

© Thomas Hardy