Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

PILATE’S WIFE’S DREAM.

I’ve quench’d my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall— The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall; Over against my bed, there shone a gleam Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream.

It sank, and I am wrapt in utter gloom; How far is night advanced, and when will day Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom, And fill this void with warm, creative ray? Would I could sleep again till, clear and red, Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread!

I’d call my women, but to break their sleep, Because my own is broken, were unjust; They’ve wrought all day, and well-earn’d slumbers steep Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust; Let me my feverish watch with patience bear, Thankful that none with me its sufferings share.