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Poetry of Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-coloured Glass

Crepuscule du Matin

All night I wrestled with a memory
 Which knocked insurgent at the gates of thought.
 The crumbled wreck of years behind has wrought
Its disillusion; now I only cry
For peace, for power to forget the lie
 Which hope too long has whispered.  So I sought
 The sleep which would not come, and night was fraught
With old emotions weeping silently.
I heard your voice again, and knew the things
 Which you had promised proved an empty vaunt.
I felt your clinging hands while night's broad wings
Cherished our love in darkness.  From the lawn
 A sudden, quivering birdnote, like a taunt.
My arms held nothing but the empty dawn.