Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.
And this high elm, where last
I stood and linger'd—where my sisters made
Our mother's bower—I deem'd not that it cast
So far and dark a shade.
How spirit-like a tone
Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was was there
At evening-hours, while soft winds waved his hair:
Now those grey locks are gone.