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1 " Daybreak"At dawn she lay with her profile at that angleWhich, when she sleeps, seems the carved face of an angel.Her hair a harp, the hand of breeze followsAnd plays, against the white cloud of the pillows.Then, in a flush of rose, she woke, and here eyes that openedSwam in blue through her rose flesh that dawned.‘My dream becomes my dream,’ she said, ‘come true.I waken from you to my dream of you.’Oh, my own wakened dream then dared assumeThe audacity of her sleep. Our dreamsPoured into each other’s arms, like streams. "
― Stephen Spender , New Collected Poems of Stephen Spender