Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)

(Composed on a journey homeward, the author having received intelligence of the birth of a son, September 20, 1796)

OFT o’er my brain does that strange fancy roll

Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past,

Mixed with such feelings as perplex the soul

Self-questioned in her sleep; and some have said

We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.

O 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

Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere

Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve;

Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven’s quick reprieve,

While we wept idly o’er thy little bier.