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.