If any vision should reveal Thy likeness, I might count it vain As but the canker of the brain; Yea, though it spake and made appeal
To chances where our lots were cast Together in the days behind, I might but say, I hear a wind Of memory murmuring the past.
Yea, tho’ it spake and bared to view A fact within the coming year; And tho’ the months, revolving near, Should prove the phantom-warning true,
They might not seem thy prophecies, But spiritual presentiments, And such refraction of events As often rises ere they rise.