I thought it was the little bed 
 I slept in long ago; 
 A straight white curtain at the head, 
 And two smooth knobs below. 
 I thought I saw the nursery fire, 
 And in a chair well-known 
 My mother sat, and did not tire 
 With reading all alone. 
 If I should make the slightest sound 
 To show that I'm awake, 
 She'd rise, and lap the blankets round, 
 My pillow softly shake; 
 Kiss me, and turn my face to see 
 The shadows on the wall, 
 And then sing Rousseau's Dream to me, 
 Till fast asleep I fall. 
 But this is not my little bed; 
 That time is far away; 
 With strangers now I live instead, 
 From dreary day to day.