The loneliness is all my own!”
“Love, this is autumn now, you know;
To other lands the wild birds go—
They only rest in summer bower,
And only stay while lasts the flower;
But, Helen, not thus let it be
With all this love that binds us now;
In winter, bare will be the tree,
No bird will sing upon the bough—
But see where I have taught the beech,