ROWSING, the other afternoon, I lay
⁠In that sweet interlude that falls between
⁠Waking and sleeping, when all being is seen
Of one complexion, and the vague dreams play
Among the thoughts, and the thoughts go astray
⁠Among the dreams. My mother, who has been
⁠Dead almost half my life, appeared to lean
Above me, a boy, in a house far away,
That once was home, and all the troubled years
⁠That have been since were as if they were not.
The voices that are hushed were in my ears,
⁠The looks and motions that I had forgot
Were in my eyes; and they disowned the tears
⁠That now again beneath their lids are hot.⁠