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Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Sonnet XVII. Composed On A Journey Homeward; The Author Having Received Intelligence Of The Birth O
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Oft o`er my brain does that strange fancy roll
Which makes the present (while the flash dost 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 fleshy robe we wore.
O my sweet Baby!  when I reach my door,
If heavy looks should tell me, thou wert dead
(As sometimes, thro` excess of hope, I fear), 
I think, that I should struggle to believe
Thou were 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.

Sept. 20, 1796.
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