The mazy-blossomed clematis.
Her garden! All is silent now,
Save bell-note from some wandering cow,
Or rippling lark-song far away,
Or whisper from the wind-stirred leaves,
Or mourning dove which grieves and grieves,
And “Lost! lost! lost!” still seems to say.
Where is the genius of the place,—
The happy voice, the happy face,
The feet whose light, unerring tread