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I start! I have slept for a moment;
 * I have dreamt, sitting here by her chair—

Oh, how lonely! What was it that touched me?
 * What presence, what heaven-sent air?

It was nothing, you say. But I tremble;
 * I heard her, I knew she was near—

Felt her breath, felt her cheek on my forehead—
 * Awake or asleep, she was here!

It was nothing—a dream? Strike that harp-string;
 * Again—still again—till it cries

In its uttermost treble—still strike it—
 * Ha? vibrant but silent! It dies—

It dies, just as she died. Go, listen—
 * That highest vibration is dumb.

Your sense, friend, too soon finds a limit
 * And answer, when mysteries come.