But mine is sad, for “Where is he?”
Closed is the book we used to read;
There’s none to smile, there’s none to heed;
Our ’customed walk’s deserted, too;
It charms not as it used to do;
The fav’rite path, the well-known tree,
All, all are whispering, “Where is he?”
This faithful heart is now a shrine
For each dear look and tone of thine,
And every scene thou used to prize