I think of thee
By the shady well,
Under the twilight’s glimmering spell.
Where dost thou think of me?
I think of thee
With pleasant pain,
With yearning, while the hot tears rain.
How dost thou think of me?
Oh, think of me
Till in some star
We meet again. However far,
I think of none but thee.
THE GLOVE.
A narrow glen with winding sides,
Bestrewn with rocks and gloomed with trees,
Grey, rolling clouds, chased by the breeze,
A stream, which through the valley glides.
Among the trees that climb the hill
The eager squirrels scold the crows,
And sharply sound the sudden blows
Of some woodpecker’s greedy bill.
The blood root, crouching in the grass,
From its protecting broad leaf peers;
The horse tails shake aloft their spears,
Like foemen, at us as we pass.
Here wandering with a friend I love,
Our speech with sparrow-chatter drowned,
He in the little valley found
An early violet, I a glove.
The flower grew beside a stone,
And shyly peered above the sod,
While, distant from it not a rod,
The dainty glove lay all alone.