You, who have been gone for years.
And I feel as I sit here thinking
That the hand of a dead old June
Has reached out hold of my loose heartstrings,
And is drawing them up in tune.
I am tired, and that old sorrow
Sweeps down on the bed of my soul,
As a turbulent river might suddenly break
Away from a dam’s control.
It beareth a wreck on its bosom,