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 EAR, I dreamt of you last Sunday even ; Slumbrous was the sermon, and the heat Weighed mine eyelids down, and summer perfumes Stole in on the breezes, slow and sweet : Leaning back, I half thought — " God is tender, Will not chide my sleeping at His feet." Swiftly, like the Mene and Upharsin, Came a name upon my vision thrown ; Name of her who till one day, one moment, Was the noblest, rarest woman known. Then the preacher's voice came through my slumbers. " He that sinneth not may cast a stone." Oh, my darling ! drowned out past remembrance, Would that I had died for thee, my friend ! Any death that had but slain the body, Any death that with the life would end ; If a message could but reach you, reach you, What beseeching prayer would I send !