MY DEAD

Last night in my feverish dreams I heard

A voice like the moan of an autumn sea,

Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird,

And it said — “My darling, come home to me.”

Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head —

As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain:

I wakened and knew from among the dead

My darling stood by my coach again.