IN what a strange bewilderment do we A wake each morn from out the brief night's sleep. Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep Its slow way back, as if it could not free Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory, Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep The joy or grief which it had last to keep For us; and by the joy or grief we see We are unchanged; our life the same we knew Before. I wonder if this is the way We wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through A brief bewilderment, and in dismay Behold our life unto our old life true. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THERE IS NO NATURAL RELIGION (A) by WILLIAM BLAKE PICTURES OF MEMORY by ALICE CARY THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 53. WITHOUT HER by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI CRADLE SONG (TO A TUNE OF BLAKE'S): 2 by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE SIR JOHN FRANKLIN; ON THE CENTOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY by ALFRED TENNYSON TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE REV. GILBERT WAKEFIELD by LUCY AIKEN SONNET FROM JAPAN: 2. THE SHRINE OF THE PILGRIM SANDALS by ADELAIDE NICHOLS BAKER |