Succor

The Land of Dreams
by William Blake

Awake, awake, my little boy!
Thou wast thy mother's only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy father does thee keep.

"O, what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O father! I saw my mother there,
Among the lilies by waters fair.

"Among the lambs, cloth'd in white,
She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn;
O! when shall I again return?"

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wander'd all night in the Land of Dreams;
But tho' calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.

"Father, O father! what do we here
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the morning star."




Dear child, I wonder the same thing myself . . . when dreams remind you of what was, or perhaps what could have been, and you wake to the same, cruel reality you try to ignore at every waking moment. Some times are better than others, but at the prick of the most insignificant image or thought, a scrabble board, a shaving razor, it all flows back to you. Everything around you seems to scream out with one inaudible voice, "She is gone!" Sleep gives brief respite, but sweet dreams only make waking to that absence more painful. Perhaps I assume too much or too little about you, and I know you have much more cause to mourn than I, but know that if your pain at all resembles this, than you do not mourn alone.