O God, my dream! I dreamed that you were dead;

Your mother hung above the couch and wept

Whereon you lay all white, and garlanded

With blooms of waxen whiteness. I had crept

Up to your chamber-door, which stood ajar,

And in the doorway watched you from afar,

Nor dared advance to kiss your lips and brow.

I had no part nor lot in you, as now;

Death had not broken between us the old bar;

Nor torn from out my heart the old, cold sense

Of your misprision and my impotence.