X.

"Ah! now the orchard's leaves are sear, Drip not with starlight-litten dew; Green-drowned no moon-bright fruit hangs here; Dead, dead your long, white lilies too— And you, Allita, where are you!"

Then comes her dim touch, faintly warm; Cool hair sense on my feverish cheek; Dim eyes at mine deep with some charm,— So gray! so gray! and I am weak Weak with wild tears and can not speak.

I am as one who walks with dreams: Sees as in youth his father's home; Hears from his native mountain-streams Far music of continual foam.