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 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.

by William Allingham
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