The brook, nor the buttercup-golden hill,
Nor even the long, long love familiar,—
The strange voice called her still.
She would not stay for the old home garden;—
The scarlet poppy, the mignonette,
The fox-glove bell, and the kind-eyed pansy,
Their hearts will not forget.
Oh, that her feet had not forgotten
The woodland country, the homeward way!
Oh, to look out of the sad, bright window