It shall find wings to bear it to the sky.
—But, dear,—God knows I would not do you wrong,
Nor touch one heart-string if it be not strong,—
But O, so long,
So long it seems! You have been gone so long!
The feather-grass is growing green and high,
And, piping gaily in an azure throng,
The bluebirds spangle all the air with song;
Again aflame the rosy peach boughs burn;
—Can not you, too, return?