When morning awakes us from slumber,
We catch from the lips the first kiss,
And fold in a wandering zephyr,
To be wafted to him whom we miss;
And when we have join’d the “home circle,”
And replaced the still vacant chair,
In each eye rose the gathering tear-drop,
For him we were wont to see there.
The shadows of evening are falling—
Oh, where is the wanderer now?