I

Without a moon when night comes on There is a sighing in its trees As of sad lips that no one sees; And the far-dwindling forest, large Beyond fenced fields, seems shadowy drawn Into its shadows. Faint and wan, By the wistariaed portico Stealing, I go Through gardens where the weeds are rank: Where, here and there, in clump and bank, Spiræas rise, whose dotted blooms Seem clustered starlight; and the four Syringas sweet heap, powdered o'er, Thin flower-beakers of perfumes; And the dead flowering-almond tree, That once was pink as her young cheek, Now withered leans within the glooms.-- Why must I walk here? seek and seek Her, long since gone?--Still bower on bower The roses climb in blushing flower.-- Ah, 'mid the roses could I see Her eyes, her sad eyes, shine like flowers, Or like the dew that lies for hours Within their hearts, then it might be I might find comfort here, although Wistful, as if reproaching me, Her sad eyes look, saying what none may know.