My Dead
Hanford Lennox Gordon
Last night in my feverish dreams I heard A voice like the moan of an autumn sea, Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird, And it said—”My darling, come home to me.” Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head— As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain: I wakened and knew from among the dead My darling stood by my coach again.
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