Are past; ’tis when the heart for solace aches;
’Tis when the road is lost in darkling woods,
Or under alien stars the fire is lit
And when strange dreams make deep the idle hour;
Then would I have my name sing throbbingly
Thro’ some beloved heart, soft as a bird,—
And swing with it—swing sweet as silver bells!
Not all your hours I hoped to see you turn
To my poor face; but when the wayside flower
Shone through the dust and won the softer mood,