Of absence and uncertainty, of solitude and tears.
Rememberest thou those dear, dear nights, so very long ago,
When love was younger, (not more true,) those nights of frost and snow,
When thou didst make, through storm and shower, thy pilgrimage to me?
Rememberest thou the forest walks, and the large willow tree,
And the white wild-flowers? I should like that dear old place to see.
What say’st thou, love?—a story, such as I told thee then.
What shall it be?—thou dost not want the old ones o’er again.
I’ve told thee all the tales I know, of witch and fairy lore,
Though, since we parted, I have read at least a thousand more.