Dream Tragedies

Thou art not always kind, O sleep:

What awful secrets thou dost keep

In store, and ofttimes make us know;

What hero has not fallen low

In sleep before a monster grim,

And whined for mercy unto him;

Knights, Constables, and men-at-arms.

Have quailed and whined in sleep's alarms.

Thou wert not kind last night to make

Me like a very coward shake-

Shake like a thin red-currant bush

Robbed of its fruit by a strong thrush.

I felt this earth did move; more slow,

And slower yet began to go;

And not a bird was heard to sing,

Men and great beasts were shivering;

All living things knew well that when

This earth stood still, destruction then

Would follow with a mighty crash.

'Twas then I broke that awful hush:

E'en as a mother, who does come

Running in haste back to her home,

And looks at once, and lo, the child

She left asleep is gone; and wild

She shrieks and loud- so did I break

With a mad cry that dream, and wake.