THE VISION ON THE BRINK
To-night when you sit in the deep hours alone,
And from the sleeps you snatch wake quick and feel
You hear my step upon the threshold-stone,
My hand upon the doorway latchward steal,
Be sure 'tis but the white winds of the snow,
For I shall come no more.
And when the candle in the pane is wore,
And moonbeams down the hill long shadows throw,
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