But it’s only in memory—past to the present—
And only in fancy we hear it again.
The scent of the lilacs, the voices of children;
The chirp of the tree-toad, the song of the stream;
The path through the woods, where as lovers we wandered,
Confusingly call like a voice in a dream.
Call to us here in our home on the mesa,
From out the dear past in the house on the hill,
And in fancy we dwell in the home by the Schuylkill,
When our day’s work is done and the voices are still.