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On this very night of last year
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber
This misty mid region of Weir
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
TO MY MOTHER.
ECAUSE I feel that, in the heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
None so devotional as that of “Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother-my own mother, who died early,
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with whïch my wife