Sometimes you say to me “When I am dead----” And then I smile-- As if you were just civil and well bred And imbecile; And saying something like “the pleasure’s mine----” Or “Yes, I think to-morrow will be fine.” But I last night, I dreamt that you were dead, I did not weep; True tears, alas! will always stay unshed, They are too deep To reach the smooth wet surface of the eye-- That shallow mirror, where all sorrows die.

It seemed to me I felt the frozen day When I would wake, With pain, itself benumbed, too tired to flay; Nor could I take A warm and living hour within my hands-- Despair itself had ceased to make demands. And now your arms are round me once again; And one small tear Marks the forgotten lesson of my pain. I cannot hear The foolish rumblings of mortality; For you, my love, are Heaven and Hell to me.