We cannot talk, and yet we may commune
While I stand silent at the cloister bars.
Then if your wedded life afford you joy—
I doubt it not,—bring with you fresh-pluck’d flowers;
If else than this, bring but the wilted stems
Of these I give you now.”
Then soon had pass’d
The last vague hours that saw me part from all.
I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet:—
The organ moaning sweetly far away;