Sick and sad, propped among pillows, she sits at her window.

'Though the dog-tooth violet come With April showers, And the wild-bees' music hum About the flowers, We shall never wend as when Love laughed leading us from men Over violet vale and glen, Where the bob-white piped for hours, And we heard the rain-crow's drum.

Now November heavens are gray; Autumn kills Every joy—like leaves of May In the rills.— Still I sit and lean and listen To a voice that has arisen In my heart—with eyes that glisten Looking at the happy hills Fading dark-blue far away.