So terrible with their dark giant boughs,
And the broad, lonely river!—all a dream!
And my boy’s voice will wake me, with its clear,
Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come
Through the wreath’d sweetbrier at my lattice-panes
In happy, happy England! Speak to me!
Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch’d
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken’d by swift waves of fantasies,
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice.