Sonnet: Composed on a Journey Homeward

Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy rollWhich makes the present (while the flash doth last)Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past,Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soulSelf-question'd in her sleep: and some have saidWe liv'd, 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, thro' excess of hope, I fear)I think, that I should struggle to believeThou wert a spirit, to this nether sphereSentenc'd for some more venial crime to grieve;Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!