In what a strange bewilderment do we 
Awake each morn from out the brief night's sleep. 
Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep 
Its slow way back, as if it could not free 
Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory, 
Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep 
The joy or grief which it had last to keep 
For us; and by the joy or grief we see 
The new day dawneth like the yesterday; 
We are unchanged; our life the same we knew 
Before. I wonder if this is the way 
We wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through 
A brief bewilderment, and in dismay 
Behold our life unto our old life true.