I had sworn I saw her face
Over yonder, still and white:
Is there not a glory of light
Round her once accustom'd place? ...
What is left for you, for me,
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Save forgetting seasons past
In the years that are to be?
Time its clos'd door holds so fast
'T will not open 'twixt us twain! ...
But I see you standing there
With the firelight in your hair, -
And I hear the drip of rain!