if i were very sure That all was over betwixt you and me,— That, while this endless absence I endure With but one mood, one dream, one misery Of waiting, you were happier to be free,— Then I might find again In cloud and stream and all the winds that blow, Yea, even in the faces of my fellowmen, The old companionship; and I might know Once more the pulse of action, ere I go. But now I cannot rest, While this one pleading, querulous tone without Breaks in and mars the music in my breast. I open the closed door—lo! all about, What seem your lingering footprints; then I doubt. Waken me from this sleep! Strike fearless, let the naked truth-edge gleam! For while the beautiful old past I keep, I am a phantom, and all mortals seem But phantoms, and my life fades as a dream.
The Coup de Grace
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