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She came to me by night,

while I was still half asleep;

stooped down beside my bed

to whisper softly in my ear

a line so perfect and neat,

for my inspiration to meet,

that when I was once awake

I would copy for all to hear,

but then sleep interfered;

that when awake at daybreak

I could no longer find her face,

for she had left me and there

was nothing left for me to make;

all was gone like melted snow,

leaving a line now displaced,

with memory now a hollow.



© D G Moody 2023