Thou must, worn Mother, leave me here alone
Where soft as early snow the white hours fall
About my musing eyes, and life seems strange,
And strange the muffled piping of the birds,
And strange the drowsy music of the streams,
The whispering pavilions of the pines;
And more than strange the immersing wash of air
That breathes and sways and breaks through all my being
And lulls away, like seas intangible,
Regrets, and tears, and days of heavy gloom.