Poem by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

 

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Bereft, she thinks she dreams



    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!



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Poetry by Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
Written on 2026-03-09 at 00:17

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