The night, with all its dreams, was done,
The birds sang sweetly from each spray;
Dim mists began to speed away.
We parted at the old street door—
I stood and blessed him o'er and o'er,
As down the dear old grass-grown way
Which sparkling in the dew-drops lay,
He passed with slow, unwilling tread,
With tearful eyes and bended head.
He left us—he, the gifted boy,