'Don't you know that I come here every night,
To see your shadow flit by on the blind?'
I look'd where he pointed, as if 'twas I
Could see my own phantom flicker and pass,—
And Aunt Bridget's shadow mov'd solemnly by,
Over the canvas that hangs by the glass!
Oh, how could we help it?—we laugh'd aloud
(Birds never cease their sweet voices in spring;
And I think in youth little laughters crowd
And spring to our lips at everything!)