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Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Half-waking by William Allingham

I thought it was the little bed 
I slept in long ago; 
A straight white curtain at the head, 
And two smooth knobs below. 
I thought I saw the nursery fire, 
And in a chair well-known 
My mother sat, and did not tire 
With reading all alone. 
If I should make the slightest sound 
To show that I'm awake, 
She'd rise, and lap the blankets round, 
My pillow softly shake; 
Kiss me, and turn my face to see 
The shadows on the wall, 
And then sing Rousseau's Dream to me, 
Till fast asleep I fall. 
But this is not my little bed; 
That time is far away; 
With strangers now I live instead, 
From dreary day to day.

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