Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/280



o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep: and some have said We liv'd, ere yet this robe of Flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead (As sometimes, thro' excess of hope, I fear) I think, that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenc'd for some more venial crime to grieve; Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!