Iii

Now that the orchard’s leaves are sere, And drip with rain instead of dew, No moon-bright fruit hangs moon-like here, And dead your long white lilies too,-- And dead the heart that broke for you:

How comes the dim touch of your arm? Your faint lips on my feverish cheek? Your eyes near mine? deep as a charm, And gray, so gray! till I am weak, Weak with wild tears and can not speak.

I am as one who walks in dreams; Sees, as in youth, his father’s home; Hears from his native mountain streams Far music of continual foam, And one sweet voice that bids him come.