A gentle shower is o'er, the earth has wept
Its fragrance into freshness. In this hour,—
When in a flood of glory all is dipped,
By the soft influence of a higher power,—
My spirit leaves its prison-house, and flies
Towards the sweet haunts of thy pleasant home,
Where, lover-like, thy river[1] loves to roam;—
'Tis there I see thee with my mental eyes,
And hold communion with thee day by day,
Though now we never meet, and haply never may.