© 2018 by Samantha Mack

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Canto LXVIII




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