How strange are dreams. Last night I dreamed about you.
All that old bitterness of loss and pain,
The desolation of my lot without you,
The keen regret, all, all came back again.
Again I faced that terrible old sorrow;
Too numb to weep, too cowardly to pray.
Again the blankness of a dread to-morrow
Filled me with sickly terror and dismay.
I woke in tears; but lo! a moment after,
When every vestige of my dream was fled,
I broke the silence of my room with laughter,
To think sleep had revived a thing so dead.
Thank God, that only in the realms of fancy
Can that old sorrow wake again to strife.
No fate is strong enough--no necromancy--
To make it stir one pulse of my calm life.
My heart is light, my lot is blest without you,
Our early sorrows are not what they seem,
Now in my slumber, if I dream about you
I wake to laugh at such an idle dream.
Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.
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