In the wainscot ticks the death-watch,
Chirps the cricket in the floor,
In the distance dogs are barking,
Feet go by outside my door.
From her window honeysuckles
Stealing in upon the gloom,
Spice and sweets embalm the silence
Dead within the lonesome room.
And the ghost of that dead silence
Haunts me ever, thin and chill,
In the pauses of the death-watch,
When the cricket's cry is still.
IV.
She stands in silks of purple,
Like a splendid flower in bloom;
She moves, and the air is laden
With delicate perfume.
The over-vigilant mamma
Can never let her be:
She must play this march for another,
And sing that song for me.
I wonder if she remembers
The song I made for her:
"The hopes of love are frailer
Than lines of gossamer":
Made when we strolled together
Through fields of happy June,
And our hearts kept time together,
With birds and brooks in tune,—
And I was so glad of loving,
That I must mimic grief,
And, trusting in love forever,
Must fable unbelief.
I did not hear the prelude,—
I was thinking of these old things.
She is fairer and wiser and older
Than——What is it she sings?