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J. Le Gay Brereton

O WISTFUL eyes that haunt the gloom of sleep,
    Are you my own, remembered from the night
    I sat before my glass in dumb affright
And saw my cowering soul afraid to weep?
Perhaps you are his, foreshadowed, when I creep
    Behind him and confess the hopeless blight
    That wilts the bloom of our supreme delight
—The breath of horror from the unknown deep.

Eyes that have never seen a mother’s face,
    Have you no mercy that you stare and stare,
        Although I never felt the hope I slew?
Wide eyes, but when I kneel to God for grace,
    Your steadfast pity deepens my despair;
        The darkness I desire is full of you.

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