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The Visitation

Drowsing in my chair of disbelief
I watch the door as it slowly opens-
A trick of the night wind?

Your slender body seems a shaft of moonlight
Against the door as it gently closes.
Do you cast no shadow?

Your whisper is too soft for credence,
Your tread is like blossom drifting from a bough,
Your touch even softer.

You wear that sorrowful and tender mask
Which on high mountaintops in heather-flow
Entrances lonely shepards.

And even though a single word scatters all doubts,
I quake for wonder at your choice of me.
Why, why, and why?

-Robert Graves

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