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OVER

ITH the blood of my heart on my hand

As the wind goes over the hill,

Very quiet I stand

At your darkened window-sill.

Does the rain that beats on your roof,

Thro' your dreams send not one cry?

In all the world is there no reproof

For your thoughtless cruelty?

Do you see on the shore of dreams

In the misty nebulous land

A bowed phantom who seems

To carry blood on his hand?

Do you hear as the pale rain drifts

Over yellow poppies and graves,

A desperate pleading that lifts

Its voice above the waves?

The voice of the love that your frown

Has driven from human breath,

Do you hear it wandering up and down

Over the country and over the town,

From the reedy shores of death?