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.