Strangers yet, strangers yet.
Will it evermore be thus, spirits still impervious?
Shall we never fairly stand, soul to soul, as hand to hand?
Are the bounds eternal set, to retain us strangers yet?
Strangers yet, strangers yet.
WANDERING IN THE MAY-TIME.
Wandering in the May-time, sweet it is to rove,
Just before the hay-time, through the leafy grove;
When the grass is bending, wave-like in the breeze,