Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll <br />Which makes the present (while the flash dost last) <br />Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, <br />Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul <br />Self-questioned in her sleep: and some have said <br />We lived ere yet this fleshy robe we wore. <br />O my sweet Baby! when I reach my door, <br />If heavy looks should tell me, thou wert dead <br />(As sometimes, thro' excess of hope, I fear), <br />I think, that I should struggle to believe <br />Thou were a Spirit, to this nether sphere <br />Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve <br />Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, <br />While we wept idly o'er thy little bier. <br /> <br />Sept. 20, 1796.<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xvii-composed-on-a-journey-homeward-the-author-having-received-intelligence-of-the-birth-of-a-son/
