The Moon Looks In
I have risen again,And awhile surveyBy my chilly rayThrough your window-paneYour upturned face,As you think, “Ah-sheNow dreams of meIn her distant place!”
I pierce her blindIn her far-off home:She fixes a comb,And says in her mind,“I start in an hour;Whom shall I meet?Won’t the men be sweet,And the women sour!”
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