To the wild, deep thrill through each trembling frame,
From fingers warmed with a pulse of flame,
To each gentle tear, to each gentle sob,
To each sigh that told of the heart’s deep throb,
Aye, these memories dwell in this soul of mine—
Oh, Mary dear, do they live in thine?
Mary, dear Mary, I pray thee say,
Do the roses bloom where thy steps now stray?
Do they look at morn on the sky’s soft blue
Through the trembling tears of the early dew?