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By Dolf Wyllarde
89
Vague, greyish lights, that first had threatened showers,
Deepened to golden, till the rosy hours
Trembled with tender passion to the dawn,
After the night.
Wan in the daylight looked our crystal towers,
Rising above the blossom-tinted bowers.
The world looked strangely on us in the morn.
Love shuddered in his sleep as one forsworn—
Poor Love! who trembles at himself, and cowers,
After the night.
