Thomas Hardy

(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928 / Dorchester / England)

Bereft, She Thinks She Dreams - Poem by Thomas Hardy

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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Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 10, 2010



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