RECALL
Winter—aback sweeps the inward eye,Fleet o'er the trail to a rose-wreathed sky,Girt by a cordon of dreams I dwellDeep in the heart of the old-time spell.
Almost, the tones of your whispered word,Almost! the thrill that your dear lips stirred,Almost!! that wild pulsing throb again—Almost!!!—('Tis winter, the falling rain).
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