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O WISTFUL eyes that haunt the gloom of sleep, Are you my own, remembered from the night I sat before my glass in dumb affright And saw my cowering soul afraid to weep? Perhaps you are his, foreshadowed, when I creep Behind him and confess the hopeless blight That wilts the bloom of our supreme delight —The breath of horror from the unknown deep.
Eyes that have never seen a mother’s face, |