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1850–1894

IV

Robert Louis Stevenson

In dreams, unhappy, I behold you stand As heretofore: The unremembered tokens in your hand Avail no more.

No more the morning glow, no more the grace, Enshrines, endears. Cold beats the light of time upon your face And shows your tears.

He came and went. Perchance you wept a while And then forgot. Ah me! but he that left you with a smile Forgets you not.

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IV · Robert Louis Stevenson · Poetry Cove