Dream Tragedies

Thou art not always kind, O sleep:     What awful secrets them 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.