Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Sonnet: Composed on a Journey Homeward

Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll        &nbspWhich makes the present (while the flash doth last)        &nbspSeem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-questioned in her sleep; and some have said        &nbspWe liv'd, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.        &nbspO my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead, (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear) I think that I should struggle to believe        &nbspThou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenc'd for some more venial crime to grieve; Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,        &nbspWhile we wept idly o'er thy little bier!