I know not how long I was lying dead;
I know not what happen'd day after day:
But I know whose breast supported my head;
I know in whose arms I passively lay.
I know whose voice I was hearing again;
With no vivid emotion through me sent,
But only with that sweet absence of pain
The young call repose, and the old, content.
I know of the presence that o'er me shed
Through all that I suffer'd a perfect ease;