Ah, what would I give if to-night, through the gloom,
Along with the budding and bursting of bloom,
They now past my window would stray.
Alas! vain the thought, and as vain sounds the sigh,
Long distance my wish has delayed;
But we sit in the twilight—my mem’ry and I—
And listen and linger, we scarcely know why,
Unless for those soft airs she played.
