When in the down I sink my head, Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath; Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead:
I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, When all our path was fresh with dew, And all the bugle breezes blew Reveill´e to the breaking morn.
But what is this? I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad I know not why, Nor can my dream resolve the doubt:
But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth; It is the trouble of my youth That foolish sleep transfers to thee.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXVIII