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Poem by Thomas MacDonagh
Last night I read your letters once again-- Read till the dawn filled all my room with grey; Then quenched my light and put the leaves away, And prayed for sleep to ease my heart's great pain. But ah! that poignant tenderness made vain My hope of rest -- I could not sleep or pray For thought of you, and the slow, broadening day Held me there prisoner of my throbbing brain. Yet I did sleep before the silence broke, And dream, but not of you -- the old dreams rife With duties which would bind me to the yoke Of my old futile, lone, reluctant life: I stretched my hands for help in the vain strife, And grasped these leaves, and to this pain awoke.
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