Xvi

'Though in the garden, gray with dew, All life lies withering, And there's no more to say or do, No more to sigh or sing, Come back with me the ways we knew When buds were opening.

Perhaps we shall not search in vain Within its wreck and gloom; 'Mid roses ruined of the rain There still may live one bloom; One flower, whose heart may still retain The long-lost soul-perfume.

And then, perhaps, will come to us The dreams we dreamed of yore; And song, who spoke so beauteous, Will speak to us once more; And love, with eyes all amorous, Will gaze as once before.

So 'though the yard is gray with dew, And flowers are withering, And there's no more to say or do, No more to sigh or sing, Come back with me the ways we knew When buds were opening.