A sound—yet not of a spoken word,
But softer and sweeter in tone,—
Like the quick low note of a startled bird
That sleeps on its nest alone,—
Once and again that sound was heard,
As of lips together grown.
Can you guess, dear Fanny, what might it be—
The sound that faltered so tenderly?
I turned away with a sad, chilled heart,
From that happiest spot below,—