My Dead
Last night in my feverish dreams I heard
A voice like the moan of an autumn sea,
Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird,
And it said—“My darling, come home to me.”
Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head—
As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain:
I wakened and knew from among the dead
My darling stood by my coach again.