See the old tree where we sat yet,—
Hear the rhythm of that thing rise and
Fall like echoes of the distant brine in
Some fair shell; and like it clinging
To the past, my heart keeps singing,
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”
I’ll be plagued if I can tell yet
What that hitching nonsense jingle
Meant, can you? I can smell yet,
Tho’, the blossoms;—hear the lingle