My inmost heart.—I know not how 'tis so,—
Quick-coming fancies thou dost make me know,
For fragrance is thy voice:
And still it comes to me,
In quiet night, and turmoil of the day,
Like memory of friends gone far away,
Or, haply, ceased to be.
Together we'll commune,
As lovers do, when, standing all apart,
No one o'erhears the whispers of their heart,