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Sometimes you say to me "When I am dead———" And then I smile ———As if you were just civil and well bred And imbecile;And saying something like "the pleasure's mine———"Or "Yes, I think to-morrow will be fine." But I last night, I dreamt that you were dead, I did not weep;True tears, alas! will always stay unshed, They are too deepTo reach the smooth wet surface of the eye—That shallow mirror, where all sorrows die.
It seemed to me I felt the frozen day When I would wake,With pain, itself benumbed, too tired to flay; Nor could I takeA warm and living hour within my hands—Despair itself had ceased to make demands. And now your arms are round me once again; And one small tear
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