Where every flower was a thought; And every bird, a melody; And every fragrance, zephyr brought, Was but the rainbowed drapery Of some sweet dream long sought.

O land of shadows! shadow-home, Within my world of memories!

Around whose ruins sweeps the foam Of sorrow's immemorial seas, By whose dark sh.o.r.es I roam!

How long in your wrecked halls alone With ghosts of joys must I remain?

Between the unknown and the known, Still listening to the wind and rain, And my own heart's wild moan.

9

_He sits by the slowly dying fire. The storm is heard with increased violence._

Wild weather. The lash of the sleet On the gusty cas.e.m.e.nt tapping-- The sound of the storm like a sheet My soul and senses wrapping.

Wild weather. And how is she, Now the rush of the rain falls serried Over the turf and the tree Of the place where she is buried?

Wild weather. How black and deep Is the night where the mad winds scurry!-- Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleep That I hear her footsteps hurry?

Hither they come like flowers-- And I see her raiment glisten, Like the robe of one of the hours Where the stars to the angels listen.

Before me, behold, how she stands!

With lips high thoughts have weighted, And testifying hands, And eyes with glory sated.

I have spoken and I have kneeled; I have kissed her feet in wonder-- But lo! her lips--they are sealed, G.o.d-sealed, and will not sunder.

Though I sob, "Your stay was long!

You are come,--but your feet were laggard!-- With mansuetude and song For the soul your death has daggered."

Never a word replies, Never to all my weeping-- Only a sound of sighs, And raiment past me sweeping....

I wake; and a clock strikes three-- And the night and the storm beat serried Over the turf and the tree Of the place where she is buried.